


I, So Distant from Where you Are

by catc10



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2018-10-02 10:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 91,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10215671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catc10/pseuds/catc10
Summary: Derek is a regular guy, he likes Hockey, writing cliched poetry, and hating on the hot red-head who is on his team at Samwell University. He doesn't know what Dex's problem is, their dislike of one another was cemented almost immediately, but unless it affects their work on the ice, Derek doesn't what he is supposed to do about it. It feels like they're a thousand miles apart at all times, and while Derek knows that he is the one pulling ahead, more popular on the team, more interesting to talk to, more friends, better looking, and more chill in general... It always feels as though he's the one attempting to catch up.Reincarnation AU





	1. Chapter 1

Derek exited the campus bus two blocks from what he hoped was going to be his favorite place on campus. Smoothly, he adjusted the black strap across his shoulder, resettling his messenger bag, and shaking off the vestiges of travel. He dusted himself absently, and started toward the deceptively small building.  _ Today is just a tour _ , he reminded himself.

Derek Malik Nurse shook his head, and scratched his hand across his scalp, sucking his teeth while walking up the steps of Faber. His mothers had wished him a safe trip a day ago, he was staying in one of the dorms for the night, and the buzzing feeling in his head got lighter with every step. Another boy was walking beside him, positively vibrating with excitement. Derek glanced in his direction, and that seemed to be all that was required to set the other off.

“ _ Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!! _ I’m so excited to be here! Are you here for the hockey tour, too?!”

The corner of his mouth involuntarily twitched, and the other powered on, undeterred by pesky things like  _ answers.  _ “I can’t believe that my auntie is missing this!! I heard that they take the parents to their own activities  _ on purpose _ , but I was really looking forward to looking at the rink together!” The asian boy leaned in conspiratorially like he was sharing a rumor heard from someplace seedy, but his bright brown eyes and ridiculous, metal-filled grin were open and pleased.

And then his toe caught the next step and the ground rose like a vengeful lover.

“Ow,” Derek said, His knee throbbing numbly and his left palm stinging. His right...wasn’t. A hot hand, burning through his henley and light jacket hauled him up like air.

“Are you okay?!?!”

“It’s chill,” Derek told him, “I’m a lot steadier on the ice, I swear.”

The other’s smile returned, blazing brighter by several notches, “Awesome!!!”

“Has anyone ever told you they can hear the exclamation points when you talk?”

The pair continued into the building side by side, the sunlit boy chattering a mile a minute about how fun the prospective student tour has been, how it tingly and amazing it was to be so far from home, wondering what winter at Samwell University would be like, if the hockey team was all he was hoping for, and oh, by the way, he played Goalie and his name was Chris.

“Derek Nurse, D-man. Nice to meet you.”

They were greeted by two team managers, a tiny asian woman whose smirk could buzz the hairs off Derek’s testicles, and a blonde boy not much larger than her holding a box of goodie bags. They tag-teamed a tour of the Wellie ice rink, from center ice to offices, press box, and locker room, snacking on hand pies the whole while. It was while they were saying goodbye to the ice that through the crowd,  _ he  _ appeared.

Derek could not say his hair was like fire, it was too orange-toned, without the russet. He could not say his freckled, pale skin was like stars, the clusters were so densely packed it could not mimic the dead space between stars. He could not call his eyes brown, they shown eerie amber, reflecting the light from the skylights oddly, like something was shifting in the back of the eye.

Derek fell in love instantly.

It seized him, poetry clawing at his lungs, freezing his breath, half-lines started, stuttering, and dead within fractions of seconds, half-formed. Derek’s cliched lines tangled, falling flat and meaningless, and he needed to introduce himself --one in four, maybe more, right? Struggling to think of something, the unsettling yellow eyes turned towards him and Chris.

And whatever tricks of light that played behind them shuttered like a slammed door. Unreadable.

“HI!” Chris beamed, his arms tightening around Derek’s in a vice of brilliant excitement.

Derek’s living muse raged silently with a flash of his eyes, a cracked and crooked smile tearing across his face.

Derek was  _ so fucked. _


	2. The World Changes Instantaneously in Inches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things considered, Derek could admit to himself, he was sort of infatuated with Dex’s aesthetic. There was something to be said about red-heads with tempers dressed in worn, plaid flannels and jeans washed and worn just enough times to cling, soft and broken in. Dex’s large ears and pale freckled cheeks flushed the most adorable pink with embarrassment, but went to a deep rose in anger. Dex’s eyes….
> 
> Dex’s eyes he liked the most before Dex’s gaze swept around a room and spotted him. His eyes were like liquid light, illuminating the world, taking in each minutia of detail. The first time Derek had spotted the shifting light of Dex’s eyes, he remembers being struck with awe, and the abrupt shut out moments later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entirely un-betaed.  
> Feedback is love! If you have any questions, comments, or concerns where my limited research is failing me, please leave me a message in the comments.

Derek would hate William Poindexter, if he hated things. But Derek is chill, collected and unruffled by such things as bigoted, stubborn hot redheads with freckles like sunspots dancing behind the eyes and eyes that flash like the edges of knives made of gold.

_A living firestorm wrapped in skin_

_flashing, fury, burning alive_

_Boiling blood and thunderous voice_

_Cutting remarks like razor blades_

_How can I possibly survive you?_

“Wow,” said Mahreen to his side, “when you have it bad, you have it _bad_.”

“I’m not talking about somebody I know,” Derek replied calmly, “It’s a description of conflict and violence personified.”

“So your D-man partner?”

“ _No_.”

Mahreen raised one instagram perfect eyebrow and flicked her gaze through the cutting corner of her winged eyeliner, “If I did not wear a headscarf, Deri-poo, I would flick my braid in your face for lying to me.”

Derek snapped shut his notebook off her lap, and rolled his eyes, “No need for dramatics, Mahreen.” He sipped his caramel macchiato and scoffed softly. “How many times do I have to tell you that he does not bother me? Literally nothing bothers me.” She hums, flicking her peacock green fingernails at his dark curls. Derek slapped his notebook down onto a stack of reading they had for their comparative world literature class and slouched further into his seat at Jerry’s.

Mahreen huffed at him, gold bangles jingling. “That would be true, if I didn’t know his name, and exactly what opinions of his you don’t agree with.” She pauses, and Derek lifts his recyclable cup to his mouth, tipping back, “Also, I never said he bothered you, I said you want into his pants like a bitch panting in heat.”

She graciously allows him a few minutes to sop up his spilled coffee.

They glance out the large picture window, winter was coming on fast for Derek’s sophomore year at Samwell University, Midterm papers had been passed in the week previous, and new, dull assignments designed to inspire had been passed to them for yet more work.

“Seriously, woman, help me with this assignment, I’m dying, here. Mr. Adams has mad dislike for my aesthetic--”

“Stop being so cliche and he’ll fall all over you. You’re sense of drama and rhythm is just his fancy.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I like cliches,” he muttered.

“Yes, whine,” Mahreen said, “You _are_ a cliche.”

They giggle softly and get down to the quiet business of hundreds of pages of reading.

 

All things considered, Derek could admit to himself, he _was_ sort of infatuated with Dex’s aesthetic. There was something to be said about red-heads with tempers dressed in worn, plaid flannels and jeans washed and worn just enough times to cling, soft and broken in. Dex’s large ears and pale freckled cheeks flushed the most adorable pink with embarrassment, but went to a deep rose in anger. Dex’s eyes….

Dex’s eyes he liked the most before Dex’s gaze swept around a room and spotted him. His eyes were like liquid light, illuminating the world, taking in each minutia of detail. The first time Derek had spotted the shifting light of Dex’s eyes, he remembers being struck with awe, and the abrupt shut out moments later.

The scraps of moments Derek had to see those eyes, he cultivated and coveted as dragons hoard gold. He was over six foot tall, hiding behind metaphorical plastic ficuses until the other noticed him in the room.

Derek contemplated this, as he slipped into the Faber locker room at 6:30 in the morning for practice.

He knocked knuckles with Ollie and Ransom, half held up by Holster, and all three stifling yawns behind their massive hands. Chris was wiggling in his extra-wide goalie stall, not quite awake enough to chatter, but already fidgeting full force, ready to send a nearby bucket of pucks tumbling. Nursey could almost feel Jack’s presence just outside the door, ready to brief everyone on the drills for the day, even though he’d been graduated and pre-season has been in full swing for close to two months. The day was calm, and clouded, with the faded denim colored sky slowly pinking somewhere out over the ice.

Derek sighed as Dex moved to his stall across from Nursey’s. It was like a wave of warmth, and Derek wondered for the hundredth time if this wave of inferno heat was all in his head, or if it was a physical output by Dex’s wiry muscles.

_You wither me_

_dried up entire_

_from your hands or your heart however,_

_I don’t know._

“What?” Dex growled, working his way up to a full scowl, “Stop staring at me, Nurse!” The red-head began to check his clothes subtly for stains and holes, Derek fully aware of the procedure from his days at Andover, when a particular sort of sneer would send any of his cohort into fits of the same.

“Chill,” he replies, smiling at the predicable, quiet scoff it provoked.

Derek kept watch over his fellow D-man through dressing and drills, chirping him over his speed and stickhandling until his freckles fell faint under the heat of his flush and his scowl furrowed deep into his brow. The flash of anger that spat fire from Dex’s eyes was a pale comparison to the lights he sometimes saw dancing behind those eerie yellow irises...but it was the closest Derek was allowed to see.

Mahreen _might_ have had a point on him obsessing over Dex.

They finished practice with a short scrimmage, five versus five.

For practice, score isn’t officially kept, but if you were to ask either Ransom or Holster playing red-side, or Ollie and Wicks who were co-captaining white-side, any could tell you red was winning as practice time ran down. Hot and sweating under his practice pads, Nursey glanced and Dex, twitching his head in a barely perceptible movement, and seamlessly Dex slid into a spot just behind Bitty and quick as you please, snatched the puck out from under their fastest player.

“Whaaaaa?!?” Holster whooped even as Bitty pivoted to give chase.

“That was beautiful!” Ollie shouted, even as he caught Dex’s pass and slammed it towards the second-line goalie, Mr. Rogers. Roganovikj blocked the shot with a padded shin, and the white team groaned collectively.

Derek nearly toppled as Ransom grabbed hold of him sharpy, and dragged him down into a helmeted noogie. “Awww, you guys are getting better!” Derek grinned up at his captain, tight warmth in his chest. Ransom was his favorite member of the team, right behind Chowder, though only because Bitty was basically his mama in a southern, natural-blonde, boy’s body. Ransom, dark, tall, and more beautiful than handsome, was chill, kind, displayed mad hockey skills, and his D-man loved him to the point that Derek was low-key _certain_ that they’d slept together more often than not.

“Thanks, Rans,” he said.

The locker room was quickly filled up with chirping and steam, a litany of young men flicking towels and friendly insults, heedless of their manager at the door. She would make her presence known if she needed them to be dressed.

And with a final glance at Dex, Derek, dressed and with a light layering of mascara and brow-gel, was out the door.

Chowder was fairly close behind, both were headed to team-breakfast after all, and Chowder was finally awake enough to chatter at his usual pace.

“We almost won this time!” he gleefully half-shouted, and several passers by turned dirty looks to the pair. “Dex and you are _sooooo good!_ ” He squirmed his torso in an aborted dance of glee, nearly losing his backpack from the twisting. As they passed over the grass of the main quad Chowder casually stretched into a forward-facing split, yawning through his grin like a cat.

“I’ll give him credit for some Hockey skills, but don’t sell yourself, short, Chow, you blocked some amazing shots, too.”

Chowder rose up with a blush.

Derek felt a rush of heat in his stomach, but let it die quietly. Chowder was the sort of innocent that made Derek want, but at the same time, never to touch.

_Purity overwhelming_

_your grin, your smile_

_to touch would be to ruin_

Over time, the dirty sensation of lusting after an innocent friend faded, especially after their first kegster when Drunk Derek tried to strip an increasingly red and fuming Dex, leaving the unsuspecting Asian to his own devices. Drunk flirting with people was a _thing_ , and Dex was easy to rile up and make lose his cool. Dex pushed him right into the lap of Chris, who had been reaching up Farmer’s shirt to fumble over her bra.

Founders was ahead of them, and Derek clapped chilled hands together as he and Chowder stepped inside. Instantly Chowder hopped over to the volleyball team to give his girlfriend a quick peck on the cheek, waving a dollar to Ollie hooting about the sin bin. Derek dutifully placed his bags at their customary table, and draped his jacket and mittens in the seats to his left, saving them for Chowder and Dex.

“However you look at it, life is a routine,” Ransom was telling Holster in the serving line behind Derek. The dark-skinned boy was waxing about something to his taller blonde companion. “Day in, day out, and even the most significant decision made for a person’s life is _still_ just a decision in one person’s life, and very seldom do we make a decision that changes the course of history. Even from _those_ , most of such decisions are made by more than one person. There’s like, a _committee_ or something.”

_“In solitude we walk on Earth/ going through challenges in life/ Predictable routine, like on repeat.”_

“Huh?”

“A poem I read once online. I liked it. Seemed relevant.”

Holster held a static grin as Ransom brightened considerably. “You get it,” he said. He continued with his rant as he piled his plate high with sausage, eggs, juice, and a cinnamon bun, “I like routines, because they’re predictable, but am I robbing myself of opportunities by following a set path? Does my decision even matter in the end, bro?”

“Bro!” Holster dropped his tray onto the line, and lifted Ransom in a hug, “A decision in the grand scheme may not be important to the world, Rans, but if you’re making a choice, it for sure affects you! You will _never_ be in solitude, Rans, _I’m here_.”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

They end up hugging in the line, causing a back-up of disgruntled caffeine deprived students grumbling at over emotional hockey bros. They get to moving just as Derek is finishing up in line and swiping his student ID and the cluster of students in line are throwing crumpled napkins.

Derek returns to his seat and Dex is already there with a bowl of cereal and a textbook out for his Computer Science class. It looked like a foreign language to the darker skinned boy, but he honestly only dealt with computer problems by turning it off and turning it on again, and beyond that was content to hand any misbehaving devices to his mom and let her fix it. Routers and IPs and darknet meant nothing to him, though he heard his mom talking about them to his mama on occasion. He sits and Dex doesn’t deign to look up, but he mutters an hello to Wicks, across the table.

The way the white boy so casually dismissed him made a snake roll in Derek’s belly. Derek was chill, though, Poindexter’s internalized everything was his problem, and, as Mahreen and Deena and Micha all told him it wasn’t his job to fix his D-man partner’s problems.

“Hey, Poindexter,” he says, smoothly. The corner of Dex’s lip twitches down, and Derek sets his things down unnecessarily noisily. “Getting your study on?”

His on-ice partner tosses him his gloves without looking, and they bump across the rim of his cereal bowl to land neatly on its opposite side. “Woah, no-look off the rim, sweet toss!” Derek’s grin stretches too-wide across his teeth and Dex huffs in annoyance.

Derek was above keeping score with this, but if someone asked, he’d have to say he was at approximately 423:1 in his favor of the great passive-aggressive debate that was their relationship. Chowder coughed behind them, and they both looked up. The kicked-puppy glare their fellow taddie send them did not deter the darker boy at all -- Dex didn’t mutter about pretentious assholes this time, which meant improvement!

Breakfast is the usually loud affair it always is, and Derek is pleased to see Bitty at the table. The tiny blonde was droopy-eyed and yawning even around his cup of hot brown water that the dining hall sold off as coffee. The other rubbed a small pale hand across his big doe eyes and reached out to ruffle Chowder’s hair until the other’s sour expression melted off.

_Normality drips like the endless ticking of a clock_

_slowly inching towards madness_

Derek idly jotted it down in the back of his Algebra notebook with a flurry of other half-phrases and metaphors, mostly on the banality of logic and other logos operandi.

“ _I take a class with a literal goddamn racist,_ ” Holster read off, “ _talking about how his black defendant probably did it because that’s_ just the way it is, _and I’m sitting here right fuckin’ behind him, and our brown as_ hell _professor is just sharing this look with me like--”_ A commotion by the door interrupted the next part of Shitty’s text, a wave of quiet then disbelieving roaring. “ _Hey_! Quiet at the back I’m reading here! Friend in fucking crisis!”

“Shut the _fuck up_ , Birkholtz!” somebody shouted back, with a chorus of jeers following behind.

Holster actually leaned back with the force of it, the team standing up as a unit to defend their co-pal head-honcho. “Holy shit, Drew, what crawled into your breakfast?!” Ransom says, striding forward in long lopes. Whatever has drawn a crowd of students is absorbing more by the second as they peel out cellphones and cover their mouths while watching the tiny screens with wide eyed disbelief.

The group looked like a pile of ants, disturbed by the careless shoe of a passing child, tiny busy motions weaving in around and amongst one another, heads pressing together and shifting.

Derek watched as first Ransom, then Bitty were drawn into the group, followed a few moments later by Tango and Ollie.

Ransom barrelled out at full sprint, screaming at the top of his lungs, “THE ATTIC _IS_ HAUNTED!!!!” Holster had about two seconds to brace himself before he was hit with two hundred plus pounds of histerical Canadian, and both with a crash hit the floor. Derek was still blinking at them when a soft weight fell onto his shoulder, and he twisted his head to find a shock of short blonde at his side.

“Oh my word,” Bitty sighed, “Oh. My word.”

“What is it?” Chowder asked. Bittle shook his head and lazily held up his phone to start typing into the internet search bar.

Ollie came back, the white of his eyes visible around the whole of his dark iris. His snapback was wrung up in his white-knuckled grip, “Hey Hols, open up the internet, bro --you need to read this.”

Holster, from underneath the bulk of Ransom squirmed a hand out and up to hold out his phone, “No passcode, Bro, full trust --Rans, get off me, I gotta get up.”

Ollie flopped his hat back onto his head, crooked and not entirely set, and flicked around on the phone until he had some page open, and passed it down to Holster, who in a show of bulging biceps and enviable core and quad strength rose up from the floor with Ransom careful held in the cradle of his hips. “Okay, let’s see here,” he said, flicking his glasses up his nose and grinning to the boys surrounding him, most of him now blinking up from their breakfasts with big eyed concern.

Derek flicked his eyes to Dex, who was grumbling with a spoon sticking out of his mouth and pointedly ignoring the chaos of a hockey team all gathering around their captains like five year olds around a storyteller.

Returning his eyes to Holster, Derek watched the other’s face flash between confusion, surprise, and then honest seriousness. _“Proof Positive: The Existence of the Human Soul. The human soul to many has been an unquestioned part of the human condition, others have cried that the existence of the soul is an impossible to prove platitude of the religious. In this year, October 2014, a group of researchers in the University of Pennsylvania’s Perelman School of Medicine and Harvard’s Medical departments jointly looked into an otherwise under researched radiobiology quirk of human blood._

_“Leaving the technical details for science journals and other such publications, the topic of the study is a measurable, negligible radiation present in the human blood, seemingly unaffected by race, gender, lifestyle habits and other such demographics. It is present in human blood, with two particular types, one highly uncommon, the other exceedingly rare._

_“While at first the data had no correlation to any particular kind of person, and seemed to be generally random even among insular groups, a strange occurrence began to trend among the few cases of the study, from people with the rare type of radiation._

_“The men, women, and children in the study_ knew _one another. People who live in separate states, who have never spoken one another’s languages, born years apart knew each other. From there, an amazing story came to light that this writer still isn’t sure she believes._

_“What these researchers have located and measured is a distinct, traceable marker for human beings who claim to have been reincarnated from lives hundreds of years in the past._

_“At first, it wasn’t believed. However, as the study participants spoke more of their experiences, and presented knowledge to their jurors that was impossible to know, less and less doubt came to greet them._

_“It isn’t known yet how far this will go, if further studies continue to solidify their claims, or if the study participants involved will be disproven and in reality this is the largest most expensive university prank in existence. But, for now, we hang in the cusp of a possible new era. Do people of the past truly live among us? Can the soul be reborn in time? For many it is a tantalizing hope, for others, a blasphemous thought. We can’t wait to find out.”_

Holster trailed off, Ransom sliding to the floor and Derek felt abuzz. A tableau of quiet had engulfed them, all staring up at their captain, agog.

Derek’s eyes flicked for just a moment across his friends. Bitty was still buried in his shoulder, Chowder was open mouthed, a slow tremor belaying the vibrant energy moments from release that would spring him up as soon as his head caught up with Holster’s words, and Dex…

...William Poindexter was white in terror.


	3. The New World Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Being one of us is currently an exercise of “Should I” and “Shouldn’t I.” Do you want to be tested? Do you wish to come forward? In some ways, it made my life easier. To tell my wife that I understand that I explain over her sometimes, because I’ve had the same experience and am trying to relate. To explain to my sons how to treat a woman because I’ve been raped as one._ \--Derek swallowed hard -- _To actually get help with my nightmares, and not talk around having PTSD from a war no one remembers._
> 
>  
> 
> _But there are drawbacks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up waaaaaay too long. Sorry. I find it particularly important to note that there has been a name change. Mahnoor has an unfortunate connotation in meaning and usage that I was unaware of, so her name has been switched to Mahreen.

It was the only news for a week, blotting out Thanksgiving build-up the way forgotten pens at the bottom of his bags would smear their deaths across the bottoms of his notebooks. Derek sighed, pulling out his creative writing spiral. He could ditch it --He was a poet, and while he loved to read, sometimes it didn’t translate well to writing. Everything he put together was like reading a middle schooler’s favorite drama. From a comic book. He continued to clear out his bag, setting aside the worst of the stained items, mostly old Annie’s receipts and gum wrappers, and carefully extricated anything clean in the hopes that the endless blue-black smears wouldn’t touch them. Sadly, the worst stain outside of his notebook had already been located -- a huge cow spot of metallic-smelling damp on the lower back side of a spare cardigan, gifted to him years ago from his mom.

It wasn’t precisely his favorite sweater, but it went well with several of his lesser used slouchies, and it was a good silk wool blend that had cost enough had hesitated. It was a bit too much for his allowance, and not quite so much that he wanted to pull out his credit card. His mom had seen the hesitation and he’d come home a few days later to see it on his bed. There was no note or even a gift receipt, but Derek knew.

It didn’t bother him.

It didn’t.

He held it in his hands after soaking up the remaining ink at the bottom of his backpack, setting on the library table to dry before putting his essentials back in. Would Lardo know how to get ink out of wool? Would Bitty?

His throat tightened.

Derek was on a quiet study floor, jacket piled around his waist on the squishiest chair he could find, waiting on Mahreen to start their comparative lit essays together. He carefully draped the sweater over his chair’s arm, and curled in his elbows into his knees, phone already in hand.

Reincarnated people. The people with a true positive test were getting harder to throw for a loop, but there were still too many holes in the story. It was easy enough to say “I can’t tell you about that incident,” after all --all it took was a claim that you were elsewhere. Very few spoke about events close enough to the present that more than basic fact-checking could be done. It was causing some…. _doubts._

Derek opened up an article off of CNN. He’d bookmarked it for later that morning before practice, but had been running around with Micha all day outside of classes to help her prepare for her next jury with the music department. The way she explained it, it was like an oral exam where you played your instrument, or in her case sang, in front of a panel of judges. It was a large part of her grade or something? She kept him busy enough picking out accessories to go with her dress not to have time to read in any case.

The article was outlining the case of an unnamed man who tested positive for the rare radiation.

 _Being one of us is currently an exercise of “Should I” and “Shouldn’t I.” Do you want to be tested? Do you wish to come forward? In some ways, it made my life easier. To tell my wife that I understand that I explain over her sometimes, because I’ve had the same experience and am trying to relate. To explain to my sons how to treat a woman because I’ve been raped as one._ \--Derek swallowed hard -- _To actually get help with my nightmares, and not talk around having PTSD from a war no one remembers._

_But there are drawbacks._

_Nobody believes you to start with. My wife laughed in my face for a full five minutes before I took her hands and spoke to her in Nepali. She married me against her parent’s wishes, because I’m black, and she grew up in America understanding her parents, but never speaking with them because she wasn’t sure she’d pronounce their language correctly. Her parents heard me, and they had to tell her that my accent came from a town near her mother’s. she has an aunt still living there. That was two days later, and it was the first time they really accepted me as her husband, and it was the moment she began to believe._

_It’s hard to prove that our experiences are real. We don’t live consecutive lives. It’s been almost a hundred years since my last life, and for my personal schedule? I’m pretty early. Normal I measure the distance between my lives in multiple centuries. I remember speaking an archaic version of French, though that was long enough ago that I don’t remember it so well. It’s sort of like remembering the voice of a grandfather who died when you were young, rhythm and cadence are there, but what he said is lost. Wish such a shaky memory, I’m surprised anyone from the initial group convinced anyone at all._

_The earliest memories are always clearest, like a first love you never forget, but eventually the moments in between get fuzzier, dreamlike and half-conscious. Those first ones are the ones that--_

“Hey, Derek,” Mahreen said, jolting him out of the article. Delicately she picked up his sweater from where his elbow knocked it to the floor, she smiled at him as he blinked up at her, haloed in florescent lights, “sorry, _mere laal_ , didn’t realize you were that deep in thought. Anything interesting rattling around in that pretty head of yours?” Mahreen was dressed up in blues and silvers, today, with accents of jade in her flawlessly blended eyeshadow.

She ruffled his head as he frantically gathered up the sprawling mess he’d made of his bag’s contents and gestured to the seat across the small formica table.

He raised his phone as she sat and pulled out her notebooks and laptop, “Just an article written by a reincarnated man.”

“Anything interesting?” She asked, pulling out their literature bible, a huge spiral of readings from the campus print shop that looks like it may have killed a more than a few trees. It had an obnoxious highlighter pink cover that she’d doodled over relentlessly with fun, geometric monsters.

“Nothing new,” Derek reported, “But he mentioned something neat? He called it his personal schedule, like, can you schedule yourself to come back from the dead, or is it like a circadian rhythm, sleep for seven hundred years and wake up again? That honestly sounds more likely, but then what would wake you up early? There isn’t an alarm clock for the human soul, is there?”

Derek slowly trailed off at Mahreen’s delighted smile.

“What?”

“You just lost all of your chill,” she replied. “You look like a kid going to the comic store on new comics wednesday.”

“Why Mahreen, I didn’t know you read comics!”

“....Deri-poo, have you seen my bookcase at my dorm?”

Derek sighed, “Not if it was in your room, I haven’t. Something about a mess?”

She threw her pen at him with a bell-like laugh.

She and Derek began their papers in short order after that, but Derek kept flipping to the back of his notebook, scrawling line after disjointed line, crossing out a few that didn’t work as he went.

~~_Disjointed memory, cruel time_ ~~

And off to the side from that _I met you one thousand years distant_

_I have lived through every storm_

_Every heartbeat of yours I treasure for when you’re mine no longer_

And directly underneath that _Pirated love, sunk under sea--ugh, lost the metaphor somewhere in there._

_Trickling sand through a universal hourglass_

~~_What does time matter when_ ~~

_~~I saw a billion faces, one per star~~ \---UUUGGHHHH!!!! _

“Reincarnation is a beautiful concept that is impossible to commit to paper,” he muttered.

Mahreen snorted, “Yup.”

He set his notebook and highlighted text aside and pulled out his phone again, reopening the article. Mahreen sighed, “Yeah, a break sounds good. I’m going to the ladies’ room.” Derek nodded absently after her silver-stitched scarf already lost to his phone’s siren call of internet diversions.

_The earliest memories are always clearest, like a first love you never forget, but eventually the moments in between get fuzzier, dreamlike and half-conscious. Those first ones are the ones that you can count on for an identity. But as time passes, how much of you can you contribute to it? After a century or two, if you haven’t returned home, can you still claim it? Do they want to claim you? I don’t know much of anything about my firstland anymore, though what I hear is more tragic with every passing year, but from what I understand, they’re taking a stance that we’re all liars, and while they’re not going to imprison people for saying they’re one of us, it’s not really a positive response, either._

_As the memories in between fade, how can you say they’ve molded you? I have a memory of one of my mothers --mothers are a different thing entirely, of this, I’ve never met another one of us who would disagree -- but other than a vague melody and a face I remember nothing else of this life of mine. Was it the fifth? The fifteenth? How did that woman make me the man I am today? Did she hold a son or a daughter?_

Derek lost himself to a man’s stream of whimsy thoughts on his own existence until Mahreen kicked him lightly with the toe of her boot. “C’mon, back to work, Derek.”

 

Derek scratched at his curls, fluffing them up from where his beanie had been protecting his ears from the cold. The Haus heater was humming away, and there was an ominous rattle from something in the pipes. He peeled off his one glove, the other went missing sometime between his first lecture and his psychology small-group, and blew into his chilled hand. “Helluva cold snap, right Nursey?” came a cheery voice from the kitchen, following a heavenly cinnamon smell.

“It’s not so cold, yet, Bitty. What’s baking?”

Bitty laughed, padding over on thrice-socked feet with two steaming, mismatched mugs. The one emblazoned with the phrase “Hoe Hoe HOE motherfucker!” was passed over to him, “Nothin’ actually,” Bitty said, “Just some cocoa with cinnamon and nutmeg.”

“Marshmallows?”

“You know it, Nursey!”

The pair snickered on their way into the living room, where most of the Haus residents and a few of their teammates were already snacking on a, frankly ridiculous, pile of cookies with their books and other study materials scattered around them. It looked like every blanket and pillow in the Haus might actually be on the floor of their living room, burying pencils and making a dilapidated fort off the green couch that Bitty still avoided touching.

“Study pile?” Derek asked, sipping carefully at the hot mug in his hand.

“It started as one,” Ransom said, using Holster’s back as a very short table for his laptop from their places on the floor, “mostly we’re looking at Reincarnation articles now, though. Bitty is trying to plan Hausgiving, though.”

“Ah, is anyone going home?”

A few hands go up, though Bitty, Chowder, Lardo, and Tango all shake their heads. “Cool, I’ll be staying, too.” He looked around, “Dex here?”

“Nah, he bailed for his dorm as soon as Reincarnation became the top topic of the pile,” Lardo said. She kicked her leg out to squirm it under Chowder’s rear end on the opposite side of the couch. A portion of blanket fort collapsed and from beneath the mass of cotton and wool Tango gave a yowl.

“My milk!”

“It’s chill,” Derek said, setting his cocoa down on the floor and carefully peeling Tango out of the blanket and using a corner to dab at spots of milk on the floor. “Hey, didn’t see you there.”

“Hey Nursey, thanks.”

Derek settled in with his back to the couch and Tango hesitantly lying his head in Derek’s lap. “What did you guys read? Mahreen and I were in the library and I read about their memories fading over time.”

“Tragic,” said Ransom. There was a hum of agreement. “Hang on, I’ve got a spreadsheet--” The Senior rummaged around his laptop files, swatting Holster anytime he moved more than a few deep breaths. This encouraged only more movement until a short shoving fight resolved with Ransom finding the spreadsheet and Holster perched on the couch with Lardo and Chowder, kicking a foot out over Tango’s body and using it to point accusingly at his D-man partner. Both looked like they were trying to keep straight faces with all their limited self-control. The illusion didn’t hold over their wavering frowns, and they burst into giggles, Holster toppling his huge torso onto Chowder, tiny in comparison to the other.

He was gainfully shoved off and Ransom continued, “So far, the information we have says that the reincarnation marker is an alpha radiation, which is unusual because most alpha-radiation emitters are materials harmful to humans. It’s extremely short range, and can’t be detected unless the blood has been filtered. A-type is uncommon, but is present in about point six percent of the population --at least here in the united states, it’s a little higher in Europe and East Asia. That is about six or so people in every thousand. Samwell has about thirty thousand students -- meaning there should be about one hundred and eighty, give or take a dozen or so, here on campus.”

“I plan, of course, on being tested as soon as it become available,” Holster added. “I know a few guys in the bioengineering lab are trying to get permission to make a set-up for it.”

Bitty snorted delicately, “Why on earth, Holster? You aren’t a reincarnated person, which you already know.”

“Because it’s super interesting?” Chowder said, leaning into Holster and wrapping him up in a hug. It was like a small papillon hugging a saint bernard. “What if they are reincarnated people and just are like, _sleeping_ still?” He gestured, “I mean, it would explain why they have gaps in their memories between lives.”

“True that, my little goalie,” Holster said, and reached up a hand into Chowder’s slick, black hair and ruffled it.

“As I was saying,” Ransom continued, “B-type is the reincarnation marker. It's like, _super_ rare. The going rate seems to be literally one in a million or less. For the entire United States, that’s like, 300 or less. We are on losing odds of having one on campus.”

Tango perked up here, “But isn’t that too much of a generalization?”

Ransom gave Tango the flattest of looks, “What. Excel doesn't lie, and those numbers are solid off of google.”

“Well,” Tango scratched at his soft brown hair, and carefully pulled away from Derek’s lap. What followed was the largest group of words Derek had ever heard come out of Tango’s mouth that didn’t include a question.

“Japan is doing a study of their own, through their municipal hospitals. Both A-type and B-type radiation are _far_ more common in relation to one another than not. The proximity of other reincarnated people seems to be another marker for reincarnated people. The overall numbers you’ve mentioned are numerically correct, but in practice, high-density populations tend to range closer to one in fifty, or even one in thirty thousand. Even across the Eastern Seaboard there is a definite rise in A and B types in comparison to the central and midwest. Similarly, the numbers go up _again_ when you narrow that population to students in higher education courses, especially graduate courses. _Conversely_ , there is also the noted trend that some places have few A and B types _despite_ a large, dense population, such as San Francisco and a Baghdad. Baghdad might be just from a lack of people coming forward, they’re not super friendly to the idea of reincarnation, but San Francisco doesn’t have that atmosphere so the lack of A and B types is odd. I’d say from the adjusted numbers, we’re at about a fifty-fifty chance of having a B-type here, and we’re more likely to have closer to five or six hundred A-types.”

There was a beat of total silence as Ransom stared slack-jawed at the tadpole to Derek’s side.

“MY SON!” he shouted suddenly, diving over the cookie pile, scattering pale sugar, spicy snickerdoodle, and thick oatmeal raisin pieces everywhere and all over a series of laptops.

Derek slow clapped for the taddie, even as he maneuvered him and his cocoa away from the chaos of Ransom rubbing his cheeks all over the smaller teen with loud, exaggerated bawling. Holster, too, was leaning off the couch for forcibly cuddle the little one slowly suffocating under their un-tender affections.

Derek snorted and let the riot calm down, smile stretching one side of his lip, even as the Hockey team wowed over Tango’s unexpected fact knowing. For the next twenty minutes, Holster and Ransom quizzed the freshman over various trivia on a multitude of subjects, screeching joy and then demanding he join them for trivia pub nights from then forward.

A warm, tight feeling blossoms under Derek’s sternum, desperately pleased.

“ _My Haus, a tenant in my heart of joy and summer heat midst winter’s harsh and fickle temper.”_

“Oh Nursey, that’s beautiful! Where is it from?” Bitty asked.

“I just made it up, no big.”

“What?! No way, we need to put that on a wall somewhere. Somebody write it down, Lardo, can you do fancy letters? We should put that over the TV!”

Derek brushed off the scattered compliments and shrugged away the praise with repeated dismissals, but the tight, possessive grip on his lungs felt ready to burst with something very much not chill.

 

The thing about Poindexter, was that, on occasion, it was like he forgot that he was a total Republican toolbox. Second game of the season, and he and Poindexter were _on fire._ Between Dex guarding the net and Derek pressuring Dartmouth players, Chowder had some difficulty showing off his skills between the pipes.  Derek skid into the box with Dex on his tail, leaping over so Ransom and Holster could get out that much more quickly. Derek jittered a leg, bouncing it tightly on the toe of his blade, adrenaline flushing through his blood like overwarm lightning. Dex passed over a small cup of water, and Derek sipped it, the urge to gulp was strong, but vomiting on the ice wasn’t fun when Shitty and he were worked by the seniors at Andover during practice, and during a game it would reflect badly on Samwell.

“Hey,” said Dex, Derek turned. Dex gave the tiniest of smiles, “Nice shot.”

Derek’s flush was just from exertion, and Dex’s eyes did not flicker with sparking electric light.

“Thanks,” Derek said back, “your assist really cinched it.”

“Still, nice shot.”

They grinned for a moment, and then Dex shook his head, frowning again and turning his face back to the ice.

Something sour curdled in Derek’s mouth, and he swallowed thickly around it. He shoved a shoulder against Dex, stretching his mouth wide to show what Micha called his “fuckboy smile”. “We got this in the _bag,_ Poindexter! Just keep slipping me and Bits those pucks!”

Dex grunted, and turned his face away.

They were supposed to be _partners_ . Derek hadn’t even done anything to _deserve_ dismissal like this.

They were pulled back onto the ice a few minutes later, and Derek watched Dex give a particularly vicious check to the D-man who had been on Bitty all night, “Rack off!” The green clad player --number 10-- flipped a gloved hand up in the closest approximation he could do of giving Dex the bird.

Dex didn’t smile once through the rest of the game, until the third period ended and the game was finished. Four to two in Samwell’s favor, which Holster and Ransom would get obnoxious over once they were all back at their hotel.

 

As they piled out of the bus, a huge charter with distressingly bright colored fabrics for a mass-transit vehicle, Lardo passed out room assignments.

“Switch with me,” Ollie said into Derek’s ear, warm breath sending a jolt of pleasure down Derek’s spine. “Dude, you okay?”

“Way to smash a kink button, Ollie.”

“Sorry, bro, my bad! But you do have 315, right? With Wicky?” Derek glanced at the card Lardo handed him and shrugged.

“Yeah, sure man, we can switch.”

“It’s _chill_?”

“Shut up, Ollie.”

“Thanks man, I owe you one.” They traded keycards, and Ollie left, scratching at his dull brown curls from where they peeked under his cap. Ollie tugged Wicky into a headlock as he reached the other, and after a scuffle divided their duffels between them. They waved back to Derek before joining the queue for the elevator bank, just past a table with an overlarge silk flower arrangement.

_Companionship without borders,_

_Truth without pride,_

_Romance, without flowers,_

_With you at my side._

The dark haired boy took a deep breath in, something autumn orange and bright flashing in his mind’s eye and fading away just as fast.

Derek looked at his new room number, 325, and headed over to the dining lounge in search of the free coffee. Hotels usually had some in the room, but last year, Chowder and he roomed together a lot, (Chris’ morning workout was _sinful_ \--so much stretching and _bending_ ,) but the californian was notorious for making coffeemaker ramen. A horrible half-cooked concoction of packet ramen created in a hotel coffeepot.

_Chowder, Chowder_

_You do devour,_

_ramen from the pot of power,_

_but when done, not to be sour,_

_please do take the pot to scour!_

Nursey smirked at himself, and winked at a few girls giggling at him from their own squishy chairs. “Hi,” one said, she had pretty hazel eyes and clear, pale skin. Her coat had the word PINK emblazoned on the front, framed by her hair and dangling earbuds.

“Yo,” he replied, with a chill wave.

The coffee bar was a keurig machine with a decent selection of brews, and Derek selected a starbucks medium roast and barely anytime later was headed back to the elevator bank and up to the third floor. He followed the signs along the corridors, passing both vending and ice machines, and located the room on the end of the hall, right next to the stairwell exit.

He buzzed himself in.

“Jeez, Ollie, what did you do, find Narnia?”

 _Aw, shit --_ No, this didn’t bother him. Nothing bothered him. Derek passed through the tiny corridor boxed in on one side by a closet and the other by what Derek assumed was their bathroom. Stretched across the bed on the far wall, utterly at ease for a split second, all languid lines of muscle covered in clouds of freckles and eyes that sparked with eerie amber light until the sight by the door shuttered them off.

“Hey, Poindexter, Ollie switched with me, actually.”

“Aw, _fuck_.”


	4. Your Hands are too Indelicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both of the senior hockey bros glanced at one another, eyebrows up and lips pressed thin, “Are you okay, Derek?” Ransom said much quieter, reaching out with a tentative hand. “Did Dex...did he like, _do_...or _say_ something?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All these chapters are getting longer and I'm not sure how I feel about it.  
> Chapter Dedicated to Anna -- you remember how I told you earlier today that I would post in a few days. _I lied._  
>  **EDITS: I have fixed various grammar edits since this posting, and will likely continue to do so. PLEASE if you see something, say something. I'm working sans beta right now.**

“Aw, _fuck._ ”

Dex flopped back on the bed with his back turned to his new roomie. _This is why Lardo picks rooming assignments,_ Derek reminded himself. _She doesn’t get incompatible people in the same room. Usually._ He thought back quickly to when he and the red-haired everything-phobe were fresh frogs, and their first roadie roommate incident.

It had ended with two soaking wet beds, soap and conditioner and coconut butter all over their bathroom floor, and a blood smear inexplicably on the ceiling. Lardo had been beyond fuming, and while no other incidents quite so bad had occurred after that, and they often sat together with Chris on the bus or at rest stops...well, they were only paired on roadies twice more. It was easier. For Chowder, for Lardo, for the cleaning staff…

Derek dropped his duffle by the closer bed, and shrugged, “It’s chill.”

“I swear to fuck that if you say _chill_ one more time in the next two hours Lardo will be calling a hearse to deliver you back to Samwell.”

“Poindexter, it’s not a big deal. Why so uptight? A word cannot kill you.”

“I would beg to differ, Nurse.”

Derek cocked a hip and pulled off his jacket, then peeled his soft, white button down off his chest. He chucked it at the other bed playfully and laughed when Dex squirmed with a yelp until he could fling it back. “There you go, eye contact is good for you, Poindexter!”

Derek turned to the tiny bathroom and immediately rammed into the door jam. “Fuck!”

Dex snorted, and Derek turned a glare on him, and was arrested by the lip pinched between the other’s teeth. A bright, amused flush across Dex’s freckled cheeks brought out the hum of light in his eyes, and Derek’s jaw was going slack and open. Dex’s eyes were soft and kind…

And again, like a door, the moment died with a silent slam.

Dex’s flush remained, but the adorable pout on over-chewed lips dropped for downturned corners and a frozen, angry frown. “Nurse, don’t brain yourself while in the shower.”

“I was gonna take a dump.”

“You were going to shower.”

Derek debated for half a second on whether or not to change his plans before remembering that he was chill, and that whatever Dex thinks is irrelevant. He goes to shower.

He takes a little longer than usual, letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles until he can hear a pounding on the door, “Nurse! C’mon you dick! I need to pee!”

“It’s not locked!”

Another pound, then, tentatively, the door unlatches. The shower curtain is opaque, save a strip from mid-chest to just over Derek’s head, so he could see through the fog and water droplets on warping plastic the look on Dex’s face when Derek grins at him. Red to his ridiculously adorable ears, Dex growled. He entered the claustrophobic room with quick glances to every detail except Derek himself. Derek had already cleaned himself, but...what the hell, it would be funny.

Derek retrieved his body wash from the corner of the tub, and poured a generous amount on his loofa, filling the room with the sweet scent of coconuts and vanilla. He scrubbed over his body, turning his face into the spray and twisting his hips and shoulders, admiring the faint twist of his shadow on the fogged curtain, and the slicked and silky glide of his hands over his body. He glanced at Dex through the curtain.

_Bloodless or bloodied,_

_your flush sings to me._

Dex was staring down at the toilet bowl just past the curtain, the layout of the bathroom just so, making the only separation of Derek’s naked body and Dex about 12 inches and a thin piece of plastic now that the freckled asshole was standing at the toilet.

“Nervous bladder?”

“Shut up, Nurse.”

A moment later, Dex used the toilet and too obviously forgot about Derek. “You should get your things and put them onto the counter.”

Dex looked up, wide eyed and with his shoulders creeping up his neck. “You’re still naked in here, Nurse!”

“It would be strange for me to have clothes on in the shower, Dex.” The tense creep of Dex’s shoulders dropped, and he flushed his waste without warning. The spray turned _icy_.

“Fuck, Dex!”

“Don’t be gross, Nurse!”

“There is nothing gross about the human body!”

“Well I’m not fucking _comfortable_ with _your_ human body, so _cut it the fuck out!_ ”

Derek bit back a childish remark. Probably _Is it because I’m black?_ Derek began to scrub at his skin again, and he made a mental note to talk to Ransom at the next opportunity. “You don’t have a problem in the locker room,” he says instead, and his voice is small.

Dex sighed, viciously twisting the knobs to wash his hands and scrub with the tiny bar of hotel soap. “I really do. You didn’t notice that I don’t shower with you?”

Derek had. Dex’ showers were minimalist, two minute affairs that had him in and out of the locker room almost before everyone was off the ice. Derek was almost always trailing into the room long after Dex was showered, toweled off, and already in his pants for the day, short hair already brightening from water-darkened burgundy to its usual, bright copper. Or, on the chance that Derek made it into the showers first, Dex was in and out in the span of time it took Derek to work through half of his co-wash routine.

Derek bit back another bitter-tasting retort, “Are you uncomfortable with nudity or just _my_ nudity?”

Credit to him, Dex didn’t immediately answer, and took a moment to think about it while facing the door. “I don’t care about nudity, but I do have a problem with seeing you in particular naked.”

“And Ransom?”

“What does he have anything to do with my issues with you?”

“What does--?!?” Derek sighed, scrubbing off the last of the suds, shutting off the spray, still struggling its way back to warm, and flung back the curtain, “What reason could you have to be such a dick to me in particular? Literally I can’t think of a single goddamn one! From the first second we met, you have dismissed me, contradicted me, or took extreme pains to circumvent me with just about everything! The only thing I can think is that you have a problem with me being black and well off! So whatever problem you have with my body, you probably have with Ransom, too! Act how you want with me, I’m chill --but Rans, your _captain_ doesn’t deserve that!”

Derek sucked in a steam-filled breath, and stepped over the lip of the tub, and onto the thin terrycloth mat, ready to rant himself right up in Poindexter’s _stupid red face_.

And promptly skid off balance when the mat slid out from under him.

“ _Woah!_ ”

“Fuck!”

A clatter of bottles echoed off the flat walls as bath products fell off the counter with one sweep of Derek’s dark arm, Derek braced for the impact of tile against his knees, but felt the wind knock out of him instead.

 _Wow...Dex is_ warm.

He was lying down.

On top of Dex.

While he was buck ass naked.

And wet.

Derek peeked down at fuming face below him, propped up on the wall in a manner that couldn’t be good on his neck. “My bad?”

 _“GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME, NURSE!!!”_ Dex had alarming volume for someone whose airway must have been half cut-off.

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry!”

Derek leapt up, nearly tripping twice more as Dex shoved him up and off at the same time, growling like a feral thing. He groped for a towel, had Dex catch him again as yanking it off the rack nearly sent him tumbling, and then Dex yanked the towel away from him.

With a whipping motion, the towel was cracked open, and Dex bundled one of Derek’s arms close into his chest, while the second was still reaching out to take the stiff, white terrycloth back. Another second and Dex had wrangled the second arm into the swaddle around Derek’s body and was rubbing him down vigorously through the cloth.

He was not shy.

Derek was rubbed down and dried off even as he was shuffled through the tiny door and back out to the chilly air of the bedroom. The towel was pulled up, cold air rushing in to chill the skin of Derek’s privates and ass, his hair was roughly pat --but not scrubbed, Derek was vaguely, floatingly pleased to note-- and then both the terrycloth and Dex dropped down, _Dex was kneeling dear god_ , and both of his legs were dried one at a time, in extremely short order.

Derek couldn’t tell if the bumping against his balls was Dex’s bare skin or if it was guarded by the material because everything had gone a little high-pitched and squeaky in the recesses of Derek’s mind and he couldn’t rightly tell if he was really standing upright or if he was actually just unconscious on the bathroom floor and the past thirty seconds was actually a dream.

He was shoved and Derek’s back hit the comforter, then the dampened towel was tossed over his face.

“God! You are going to kill yourself one of these days Nurse! I’m going to go take a walk. Please for the love of all you hold dear be dressed when I get back.”

Derek heard Dex stomp to the door and the quick angry whooshing of it opening, along with a concerned pair of voices, and Derek had just enough senses back to grab the towel off his face and use it to cover himself while sitting up.

“Bro, you okay?! There was a thump and shouting!” Ransom darted in, followed closely by Hoster’s huge form. Derek fought off the urge to draw his legs up to guard himself. “Woah, Nursey? Wasn’t Ollie assigned here?”

“Yeah, bro,” he coughed to bring his voice back down to its normal register, “he wanted to switch for Wicky, it was chill up until I was getting out of the shower.”

Both of the senior hockey bros glanced at one another, eyebrows up and lips pressed thin, “Are you okay, Derek?” Ransom said much quieter, reaching out with a tentative hand. “Did Dex...did he like, _do_ ...or _say_ something?” His big hand froze inches away from Derek’s goosebumped arm.

“Uh…” Derek blinked, Ransom looking down at him on the bed, Holster nearby and putting of ridiculous body heat, and of course _now_ his downstairs starts to stir up some interest in the proceedings, making the situation of being in the nude with only a towel to preserve his, admittedly limited, modesty all that much more brain melting.

“It…” Derek started, “I’m pretty sure it was my fault?”

“Never.” Holster said, vibrating, tense the way bowstrings are just before letting loose an arrow, “We all know Dex isn’t really...Samwell’s finest. But if he did anything to you, if he made you feel vulnerable or gross then it certainly wasn’t--”

“More like I did that to him?” Derek interrupted before Holster could get his steam up. “I uh...sort of pushed my nudity on him, which he wasn’t really okay with? Which, um, might get me a skype lecture from Shits?”

Ransom’s face was crunched like he bit into something sour, and he took a seat next to Derek, the bed sinking under his weight. Derek fell the slightest bit into him, and was wrapped up in a one-armed hug before he could pull away and apologize. Within the span of a breath, Holster was leaning into him from the other side, and heat was sinking into him from right and left, big hands resting on his shoulders.

“I kind of tried to get up in his face when we were arguing. He had come in so he could pee? We got in an argument, and I got out of the shower to shout in his face because _racism_ , but I slipped and landed on him while in the buff?” _He had been on top of Dex while naked and wet,_ it kept popping up in his head like a memory of a dream. Phantom spots of heat and pressure, on his arms, his chest, _the insides of his thighs, oh shit._ “He, uh, wasn’t okay with that? I think? He sort of--” The words tumbled out of his mouth like broken teeth, “he picked me up and dried me off? Like, he touched my dick? But it was the least sexual dick-touching I may have ever encountered since my moms changed my diapers?”

The bodies on either side of him stiffened, and Derek rambled on, brain stuttering between ninety miles an hour and full stop, with the odd shift to reverse when he remembered the look on Dex’s face when Derek was (naked!) on top of him. “He was making it pretty clear that he wasn’t okay with me being naked, so I was basically flaunting it? Like, I wanted him to get angry.”

He would have gone on, but Ransom turned his face up away from where they were staring dazed at his bare knees and spoke to him. “So he’s not at fault, I get it, but...are you okay? He didn’t have permission to touch you, much less when angry, and you don’t sound...like yourself.”

Derek blinked into concerned dark eyes, coming back into his own head like stretching into an old suit, “Ah, yeah, I’ll be fine... Mostly I’m amazed that actually happened. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m basically mortified and feel a little like crawling _into_ a rock or maybe just begging mama to buy me a plane ticket home for the rest of the semester because the hot boy that hates me touched my weiner, but I’ll be okay.”

He flashed a grin to Ransom and Holster, but it faded quickly. They tucked him in tightly between them.

“So,” Holster said after a minute, breaking the silence that grew more stilted and awkward by the moment, stalling somewhere in the transition from ‘emotional support’ to ‘moving on with our lives’ and getting stuck in ‘one of us still has no clothes on’ territory.  “Should we expect you to take up the mantel of being the Hockey team resident nudist?”

Ransom didn’t even lean away from Derek before shoving Holster in the face, and it broke down into a shoving fight with Derek caught in the middle, laughing and shoving back at Rans with the other Senior’s help.

Dex came back a few minutes later, “What the fuck?! Put a sock on the door or something!” Derek, Rans, and Holster all turn to see a red-faced ginger working his way into another tantrum, freckles pale against the skin of his face reaching almost purple levels of wrath. Derek laughs gingerly, lowering his bare legs from Ransom’s waist, thankful that his skin doesn’t show a blush so easily as the teen by the door’s, and pushes himself off Holster’s chest.

“Yeah, this is sort of threesome-y, sorry bros.”

“Our privilege, bro!” Holster says, “gotta inaugurate naked wrestling with the Hockey team nudist!” He digs a big palm into Derek’s hair and scrubs as the sophomore squawks. Ransom laughs, slapping him on the knee and locating the discarded towel on the floor, passing it over.

The bottom of Derek’s lungs freeze, even as a bubbling champagne giddiness makes them lighter. “Yo, thanks, bro.”

“No problem, bro. Hey, Dex, want to go hang with me and Holtzy for a bit? Let Nursey get dressed?”

“Only once you’ve washed your hands.”

“Fair,” Holster replied, slapping Derek’s ass on his way past and disappearing into the tiny bathroom. The whoosh of water in pipes sounded, and, shivering, Derek began a hunt in his duffle for some boxers. The door closed behind Ransom, Holster, and Dex not even a minute later with a quick stereo chorus of “Bye, bro!” and an air of reality setting back in.

 

Dex returned twenty minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee from the lounge that he handed to Derek with little fanfare. When Derek asked him why, Dex mumbled a quick apology for yelling, and told Derek that he spent close to half an hour without clothes on in a room set to seventy degrees right after getting out of the shower, and Dex wasn’t lucky enough for that to give Derek a cold, so he had someone sneeze on the lid. But there wasn’t any venom in Dex’s voice when he said it, just a resigned self-pity.

The coffee was a bitter black.

Derek drank every sip of it anyway, buried under his comforter and class readings open on his chest, slowly lulled to sleep by the soft breathing across the room.

 

Derek strolled into the Haus and was immediately assaulted with the violent smell of baked pies cooling, warring spices of cinnamon and rosemary, the heady scent of butter melting, and cajun spiced something that Derek was suddenly determined to eat _all_ of. Something hoppy floated along with it, making Derek’s mouth water. “Yo, Bitty, you in the kitchen?”

“Yes, sweetheart, can you help Chowder set the table? He is having trouble with soup spoons and salad forks.”

“It’s Hausgiving, Bitty, what’s with the plethora of tableware?” Derek certainly didn’t remember such fanfare the year before, in fact, most of Hausgiving was held in the living room, eating pie straight out of the tin.

Bitty sniffed, “I have a bet to win with Ransom and Holster, I’ll have you know.”

“Ha! What bet?”

“That my dinner here would far surpass theirs in Buffalo with Holster’s family. Ransom of course said that we were all celebrating _American Thanksgiving_ , and that it was therefore inferior no matter what, so he got vetoed from judging.”

“Chill.”

Derek strolled from kitchen to seldom-used dining room, to see Chowder already being helped.

Dex was carefully and calmly explaining the proper table setting to Chowder, with what Derek could only describe as love written plainly all over his face. It reflected in the golden pools of his eyes like ghostly lamplights on the sea, or like honey-warm heat over smooth, precious stones, glowed across his cheeks with a perfect rose flush, and had Dex pressing their shoulders together gently, even as large freckled hands cradled Chowder’s meaty digits to guide them placing down utencils like delicate silverware.

“Make sure it’s straight,” Dex murmered, breathy, “Repeat it with me?”

“Fork, fork, knife, spoon, fork,” Chowder echoed dutifully, “salad, dinner, steak, soup, dessert.”

“Very good. Now the plates. You have three, in formal settings. We’re only going to use two. Salad and Dinner. Now, think about the forks --what’s similar?”

“Salad plate is smaller!”

Dex beamed like Chowder wasn’t repeating things Derek had learned when he was seven in manners seminar.

“Dinner plate goes down first, so no one has to bring it later, salad goes on top.”

“Where does the third plate go? Is it for dessert?”

“No, it goes here, to the left, and it’s for bread. What are these?”

“Waterglass, wineglass, coffee cup!”

“And where does the napkin go?”

“Uh...under the forks?”

Derek interrupted, the light was too perfect coming in from the window, highlighting Dex and Chowder’s hair, creating halo fires of orange and dove grey. It was beautiful, soft and warm despite the cold that had snapped into town two days previous, freezing the roads hard and slick and making students sigh gratefully that classes were on break. “Or on the plates.”

Derek clapped Chowder on the shoulder, Dex jerking away in a burst to stand up straight and glare balefully at his D-man partner, leaning against the entryway to the dining room.

“You have a leaf in your hair,” says Chowder, grinning so widely his braces seem to sparkle, “Why do you always have a leaf in your hair?”

“Because I am secretly an autumn fairy, Chowder how did you know? Now I’ll never get my wings, boo-hoo!” Something low and warm glowed in Derek’s guts as Chowder giggled.

Chowder pointed dramatically to the place setting, “Dex knows where to put formal settings, isn’t that neat?”

“Pretty cool,” Derek agreed, “I like how the plates don’t match. Sort of eclectic chic.”

Dex snorted derisively. “We have abandoned tableware to work with, Nurse. It’s not like college kids can just buy new dishes when they move.”

Derek opened his mouth to say something, but caught sight of Chowder’s downturned lip and the set of his sparse eyebrows, “I--I was paying a compliment, Dex. It wasn’t meant to be a dig.” Dex said nothing in response, but wouldn’t meet Derek’s eyes --which was as close to an admission of guilt as the D-man thought he might get.

The front door opening echoed back to the dining room along with a call, “Hello? I brought Tamales!”

“Thank you, Whiskey! Bring them in here to stay warm while I finish up the last of these side dishes!”

“Oooh! Oh, guys isn’t this great?! We’ll all get to eat Thanksgiving together!” Chowder said, linking arms between the D-men and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He flicked his face between them, brows wagging, “Don’t you agree that we’re going to have fun?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Derek said.

Dex snorted, “Panic at the Disco? Really? Aren’t they a bit too _mainstream_ for your hipster image?”

“I’m not a hipster, Dex.”

“That’s just what a hipster would say.”

They got frog-marched to the over-warm kitchen, overflowing with savory aroma, by Chowder.

“Here, Bitty! I can get the rest of the table myself, have these guys cut things or something!” The crafty little devil drops them and goes back down the first floor hallway to finish the table settings.

“Don’t forget the good tablecloth!”

“You mean the picnic blanket? Dex and I got it already, _Mom_!”

“I adore you, too, Chowder!”

Derek snickered at Dex’s pale discomfort. “Don’t worry, Poindexter, I’m better with a knife than I am at walking.”

Derek is set to cutting tomatoes for a salad, while Lardo finishes cutting cucumbers, carrots, and filling up ramekins for bean sprouts, sunflower seeds, lime wedges, and tiny sprigs of broccoli. There were other assortments of toppings already done, and Derek really didn’t know where they were going to put it all.

Dex, Whisky, and Tango traveled from Kitchen to Table arranging platters and bowls of food. Mr. Rogers and his girlfriend Lydia, along with a few other Sophomores and Freshmen showed up just on time to shrug off jackets and transport the ramekins of toppings. Once it was all out, Bitty arrived, bearing the single largest basket of bread items Derek may have ever seen, with the largest smile across his face, and everyone squeezing in their elbows to sit at the table.

“Now,” said Lardo from the head of the table, “We have a couple of different religions present at the table, so no one will direct a prayer, but feel free to say one for yourself in the next thirty seconds. We’ll wait.” She tilted her own head down, and closed her eyes, a few others following suit. Bitty and Chowder grabbed hands with secretive grins for their prayer, Mr. Rogers and Lydia did the same. Whiskey crossed himself with a murmured ‘amen’. Dex rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but didn’t say a word.

Derek clasped his hands in his lap for his own prayer, though he felt sort of silly, given that his family had barely practiced either of his mother’s faiths, and so Derek himself, when pressed, would claim atheism, with a side of healthy skepticism and self-doubt. He usually told people this with his most charming smile and a comment about no one really knowing what happens after death.

It hit him with a sudden bell-like clarity that such may not be true anymore.

“Thank you for that, folks. Now, before we dig into this ridiculous feast that Bitty has prepared us, use every social media account you have to brag the _shit_ out of it!” There was a laugh as another few minutes was lost to a flurry of picture taking and posting to every social media outlet in existence along with hashtags for people present, the Haus, Hausgiving, and Samwell Men’s Hockey.

“Okay, for reals, though, dig in everybody, and tell me: what are you thankful for this year, 2014? I am thankful that my Printmaking project got turned in on time, even though half my pulls were half-assed, which makes sense, as the image was, in fact, of Jack’s ass.”

“Lardo!” Bitty cried, hand to heart.

“Not sorry,” she replied. There was a ripple of laughter down the table, even Whiskey cracking a smile.

“I’m thankful for my SMH family!” said Chowder, half shouting, “because without you, I’d be eating a Hot Pocket! Or five.”

There was a cheer, followed by a clinking of various glassware filled with beer and wine. The atmosphere was warm, and as Derek filled his belly with some of the most delicious food he’d ever tasted he poured the warmth in his lungs and heart, feeling it sink in through his skin.

“I…” Derek stuttered, Chowder and Dex turned their attention to him, even as the others at the table continued on, “I would really like to quote a poem, here, but for the life of me I can’t think of one.” Dex snorted into his salad, taking a huge bite.

Another rousing cheer came from the end of the table near Lardo, where Mr.Rogers declared thankfulness over his mother’s cancer being non-aggressive. Derek saluted with his drink along with Dex and Chowder, each downing a mouthful of alcohol with the table. Lydia and Lardo, on either side of the tadpole, thumped his back.

Bitty was thankful that the season was going well, Whiskey was thankful that his “sí-sí” had sent him the recipe for the tamales in time, Lydia was thankful she was passing Algebra, Dex was thankful that there wasn’t any seafood on the table, Veep, a junior on the third line was thankful for any meal at all, and when the cheering finally came around to him, Derek found he was almost speechless.

“I have had five minutes to think of a poem to fit this moment,” he said into a lull, “I got nothing. My cliches have failed me, and I am left with only the truth that there is no place I’d rather be, than right here, right now, with all of you.” He thinks of his moms’ house in New York, a well-kept brownstone on a calm, clean street where every house was filled with loving relatives save his own. Their home spacious and empty, with the pair of his parents on another adventure, on a vacation in Australia or New Zealand, or maybe it was South Africa? Did they visit Ma’s friends in Sri Lanka? Derek loved their worldliness, but sometimes, he thinks he’d really like to be home for a holiday. You can only Christmas in Montego Bay so many times before the novelty wears off. And while He’d take Colorado or London in a heartbeat despite the cold,  He’d never decorated his own house. It was something of a revelation last year, when Derek, Chowder, and Dex were conscripted into covering the Haus in fairy lights.

“Hey, C, do you remember last year at Christmas break, when we did up the Haus with lights?”

“That was an electrical nightmare.”

“No argument here, Dexy. How many fuses did we blow, again?”

“I refuse to acknowledge that day.”

Chowder, Bitty, and Lardo all snorted, “And that was only _after_ we got all the dead bulbs replaced!”

“No. No, we’re not going to revisit that day,” Dex grunted, shaking his head like it would dislodge the memories of detangling ten _boxes_ worth of string lights, plugging them one by one into the wall and searching for replacement lights in several shops, having Holster and Ransom arrive with three more packages of lights just for the spares but deciding to put the strings in ‘for the Vine’.

“But it was sooo great!” Chowder said, “We nearly fell of the ladder how many times?”

“What do you mean, _we_?” Dex asked, “That was all Nurse!” Derek turned to him to argue, but the corner of Dex’s mouth was twitching, and his eyes, they were sparking in delight as the red-head playfully shoved at Chowder’s shoulder. “You skid off the bottom rung once, I nearly fell of the stairs catching him _twice_ , he fell five times, and he _just slipped_ fourteen times. Hint: he was brushing dirt off his shoulders and it was more than a _slip_. Yes, I noticed.”

“That’s an exaggeration!”

“They are true data, from my experience.”

“There is no way, and you’re making those numbers up!”

“Am I disturbing your _chill?_ ”

“ _Never_. I just want to state for the record that you’re making numbers up to fit your opinions.”

“To quote you, _never_. Also, those numbers are accurate, because I counted, and I told that story to just about _everybody_ when I went home for the holidays, and they _still_ bring it up to see if you’ve accidentally died yet.”

Derek, along with a good chunk of the people at the table slowly grinned, and Derek couldn’t help what came out of his mouth, “You grumpy bitch, you had _fun!_ ”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Hahaha! Yes you did! You went home and couldn’t wait to share with absolutely everyone how much fun you were having, playing straight man against all the crazies in the Hockey frat!” Derek shoved some butter and cinnamon sweetened sweet potatoes in his mouth to keep from asking what other stories he told to his family.

This began a round of the others asking Dex about how his family reacted to all of their exploits.

Derek drank deeply of wine and stayed silent for awhile, content to listen in to Mr. Roger’s skanky take on popular movies that put his girlfriend into hysterically giggling fits, Bitty’s rousing story of beating the food menu into submission complete with wine sloshing out of his glass, Lardo’s playful complaints about the Locker Room mess and hopes that their next manager would understand how to deodorize, and Chowder’s slowly more drunken lament that Farmer got to go home to California for both Thanksgiving and Christmas and he _missed_ her.

Derek contentedly chewed, drank, and swallowed, let Whiskey push him into his seat when he tried to get up for more chopped _something_ from the kitchen, and if there wasn’t any left, he could _totally_ cut some more, it would be _fiiiiine_.

 

Bitty was pointing imperiously to Chowder’s floor, and Whiskey was being shuffled across the hall and into Bitty’s bed while being plied with water. Dex was spreading out blankets and C was insisting that he could be on the floor, he was a proper host and Bitty would be so disappointed if his guests slept on the floor, ignoring the fact that Bitty was the person telling him that Dex and Nursey were _‘absolutely going on the floor, you poor dear get your pants off before getting into bed.’_

Derek was wine drunk and warm all over, loose and sloppy, even in his own head.

_Night beguiled,_

_Summer child,_

_wine drunk lovely,_

_...lovey dovely?_

“I should write that down...it’s _genius_.”

Dex guided Chowder and Derek to Chris’ bed by the shoulders, his heat sinking in like oven-warm iron or maybe sun-heated cats. “You didn’t say anything, _genius_. Lift up.” Derek wobbled as he raised his hips, fingers fumbling at his belt and button. Dex slapped them away, and pulled Derek’s skinny jeans to his knees before knocking him back to the bed and starting on Chowder. He was easier, placidly standing with his huge hands on Dex’s shoulders as the other stooped in front of him, gently peeling down sweatpants and reverently pulling up the boxers that slipped down with them. Derek watched through half-lidded green eyes, half-heartedly kicking his legs and unable to get his Sperrys off.

“First one,” Dex said, and Chow lifted one leg, “Second one,” he continued, and Chowder rocked as he switched feet.

Dex sat Chowder on the bed, kissing his hands and his forehead, ruffled his coarse, dark hair. Derek’s leg lifted, his shoe gently pulled away from his foot, then the legs of his pants slid down and off. Derek stared up dazedly, a feeling of being underwater and staring at the sky through its surface, off balance, like any direction could be up.

_The light of Polaris is in your eyes_

_the only direction I want to go_

_due north into you_

_but lost upon the sea am I_

_clouds seldom broken_

_for me to find your light_

_storms rage upon me_

_in this little boat I pilot_

_soon to dash upon the rocks_

_if I could but travel north to you_

_I believe i could be happy_

_safe inside your white-hot heart_

_but when I go, I fear_

_the water is cold_

_and I may freeze without reaching you._

“ _Genius_ ,” Derek muttered, hauled up to stand, swaying on his ocean. He is maneuvered and put down again, Chowder’s blanket draping over them both on the little bed, body-warm and just the right level of heavy, like little weights have been put inside. Dex hesitates, hand out, almost to Derek’s hair.

Pulls away.

He goes and shuts the door, leaving the yellow street light bleeding through the curtains as the only illumination in Derek’s whole world. Making rusty halos around Dex. Dex comes back to the desk, and sits in the chair there. Fingers steepled over his chin, eyes trained on Derek and Chris in the bed, spooned close and sharing warmth in the frigid room. Derek notices with the detached clarity that comes with inebriation and infatuation that Dex is in boxers and a tank top, hardly appropriate attire for the temperature of the room, even with the sheets still arranged into something resembling a pallet on the floor next to them.

“Hey….guys?” Chowder said, breaking the quiet to make room for a different sort of silence.

“Yes, baby?” Dex said, still staring with his glowing eyes and rust-colored halo, fingers blocking Derek’s view of the set of his lips.

“I’m thankful for the reincarnated people.”

“....I’m not.” Dex replied.

“I am,” Derek interrupted, voice just as soft as theirs. The Haus was still, the quiet of sharing secrets. “I want to know about the things humans knew long ago, before even _they_ forget. So much time, poetry and thoughts, ideas, and memories that we’ve already lost.”

“I don’t care about that,” Chowder insisted, nuzzling into Derek, until his chilled nose was pressed right against Derek’s dark shoulder, “I just...I want to be with the two of you forever. Even if I’m not the kind that remembers, I would be happy, if I could just stay with you.” Big, fat tears, hot and salty, dripped onto Derek’s neck. “It scares me, how much losing either of you would hurt. Mom and Dad told me that the people you meet in college aren’t usually with you forever, and that just...it’s the worst feeling I’ve ever had. Even worse than that time Caitlin and I had a fight so bad we almost broke up.”

That was a revelation for another time, when Derek wasn’t drunk off his ass.

“........You will never be alone in any of your lifetimes, Chowder. I promise.” Dex said. The seated Frog rose up from the chair with a complaint of metal and plastic. Two soft footfalls and his body loomed over bed, putting off heat like the star Derek saw glittering in his eyes. Dex met Derek’s eyes. He leaned over, kissing away Chowder’s tears and shushing him gentle as a lamb. Then up, over Derek….

The fever-warm press of lips to lips, close-mouthed and bitten until chapped. Derek opened his eyes unaware of when they’d closed.

“Sssshhhhh…..” Dex whispered, then, quietly, “Now…. **_forget._ ** ”


	5. Your Heroes are Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. THIRD ATTEMPT TO UPLOAD THIS CHAPTER.  
> Sorry dear readers, but between the end of the school year, not having a working desktop to work on, and various other activities, I have only just gotten to finish this chapter today. I have also been having trouble getting it uploaded from this tiny, tiny laptop.  
> I will do my best to fix any errors in formatting, but I can't catch it all in one go, so if you see something, say something.  
> Much love.

When the Fall semester was ending at Samwell, Derek could have been in a better place. Hockey had been going great, they were winning more than they were losing, After getting wine-drunk at Hausgiving and waking up by stepping on Poindexter, completely on accident with the added bonus of being funny as hell, he and his D-man partner found an equilibrium of communicating entirely in chirps. Sometimes incredibly crude or mean chirps, but chirps. There was a week left, and Derek had just finished his creative writing final project when he’d heard the news.

He had realized it would probably happen sooner or later. And he was  _ chill, _ so he knew that while he could handle it, he was probably going to need to be there for Chowder during the fallout and investigation. He was fine.  _ Fine. _

It could set the whole movement back a bit, sure, but really what irked him the most was that it meant he may,  _ on principle, _ have to redo his whole creative writing final. Possibly.

Even though he really liked it.

And Derek never liked how his stories came out.

_ “...after comments made a week ago, the Smithsonian re-tested West Hardrick, who claimed to be a B-type and found his original test results were fake. While many Christian Fundamentalist groups are taking this as evidence that all B-type claims are false, many progressive parties, including President Obama, are stating that regulation for testing facilities and security for them needs to be increased. _

_ “Hardrick’s original claim was made in early November, and since then he has found his fame and fortune skyrocketing,” _ a sound clip played of West Hardrick, from a radio interview with him all but in tears for how grateful he was that his life had changed. He was the original B-type everyman celebrity --he came from a poor family, and had three kids too young, with little by which he could support them. With the help of the Smithsonian and the University of Pennsylvania he had not only been able to pay off his debts through compensations for interviews, but he was also able to attend the University as a student.  _ “Hardrick’s claim, as stated by his agent, was motivated by the wish for his girls to grow up without the financial burden he did. Currently his sponsorships and assets are frozen while investigators look into the matter of his fraud. While the Smithsonian has released a statement about their disappointment in his actions, they have yet to say whether or not criminal fraudulent charges will be raised against him, or if they will be seeking compensation for their losses. The University of Pennsylvania has refused to comment on the situation until criminal resolutions have been decided. _

_ “At this time, all A and B type test results not performed at the University’s lab are now under review.” _

And with that, just before dead week and finals. A and B types, reincarnation -- _ the most interesting thing that was going to happen this century _ \--was set up to be killed by religious fundamentalists and Republican conservatives.

Derek was lamenting his short story -- a pair of B-type lovers who meet, always, on opposite sides of conflicts that Mahreen had called “the most beautiful cliche you’ve ever written, Derek, seriously,” and all the research into the Napoleonic Wars that went with it.

Derek wearily climbed up the steps to the Library, ready to meet her and Micha and Micha’s friend Jo for a final go-over on their stories, which were due in four days to their professor. He dropped one of the coffees from his carrier to George at the circulation desk, who grinned conspiratorially at him through his thick glasses. Derek hadn’t really understood ‘coke bottle lenses’ until he and George had met last year and Derek realized suddenly he could get what the Lit majors would sacrifice small children for -- an  _ in _ at the desk. “Thanks, brother,” the other student said.

“You just keep me at the top of my reservations lists, George.”

“Will do, will do, hey, uh...you meeting Mike up there?”

“Yes, her, a buddy of her’s named Jo, and Mahreen.”

“Say hi for me?”

Derek nods, already walking away from the conversation, “She’d be more into it if you said it yourself, but okay, bro.”

“You know I can’t leave the circulation desk! D? Derek? Are you going to say hi for me?”

Derek snickered as he sauntered into the elevator, tipping his cup to a spectacled freshman girl whose glasses had an adorable 50s vibe. She tipped her own coffee to him and together they drank as the elevator began its ascent.

“Good luck with finals,” he whispered to her as she exited on a quiet floor.

“You, too,” she replied, softly.

It was the  _ “Happy Holidays,” _ of college campuses across the continent.

He exited a non-quiet floor less than a minute later. He passed through a seating area next to an information desk and swung a right through the stacks that he  _ thinks _ hold business law books. They were full of thick, bound volumes in richly colored faux-leather with black details and that were numbered with roman numerals that spanned across a whole shelf or more. This entire floor of the library held the scent of dust and cotton in the air, despite a small army of student employees who dusted daily. For being a non-quiet floor, people never hung around long on the floors without computers, save for the odd passed-out figure draped over the sofas near the bored workers at the information desk, and the students at the group study rooms to the back, where life began to revive.

Derek walks along the bank of rooms at the back with glass walls, glancing at the groups inside the small pods, in varying degrees of busy and despair. A computer science group whisper screaming at one another in a tangle of power cords, a math group face-down in their books in despair, a murder of business students frantically setting up a presentation and powerpoint with what looks like a theatre student writing a script, and at the end of the row, Micha, Mahreen, and Jo, with the big squishy chairs pulled in from the information area, and the tables pushed to one side. They are already reading off each other’s laptops, and as he approaches, Derek sees Mahreen twist her head to ask something of Jo, yellow fringe on her scarf twinkling with tiny beads.

She spots Derek with his tray of warm beverages and reaches out two grabby hands, wiggling her fingers with a blinding grin that doesn’t quite match her shifting brown eyes, tensed at the corner, just enough to crease her eyeliner.

“Yes,” she says, “ _ mere laal, _ my dearest provider of caffeine,” then, meeting Derek’s eyes, “Hi to you, too, Derek.”

Derek smiled, “Yo, girls. Who’s ready to beta read?”

“No, I need more _ tiiiimme! _ ” Micha whined. “I’m not ready!” She seemed almost the polar opposite of Mahreen in that she, while a dedicated student of music, took her procrastination to almost Bitty-like levels in all her other subjects.

“Too late, I’m already reading your story. Hi, I’m Jo, nice to meet you, Derek. I’m in another section of the class, but I happen to know this goober pretend-crying on the floor from high school.” She was dark haired and freckled. Derek smiled, and shook her hand. Her freckles were sparser than Dex’s. Not as cute.

“S’wawesome. Chill to meet you, too.”

He drops his bag and holds out a hand for her to shake. He sets up his laptop and sits on the floor, leaning into the side of Mahreen’s chair. “So, I may have to rewrite the whole thing.”

“Because of the news this morning?” His friend said, tugging one of his curls with a perfectly manicured fingernail. They were bright orange with gold microbead accents, now. He looked up, and her dark, brick colored lips were set in the smallest of frowns. “Don’t, it’s a solid story.”

“What’s it about?” asked Jo, flipping her hair off her shoulder.

“B-types with a star-crossed romance,” he answered easily. “With a running pan-sexual theme and lot of emotions.”

“Oooh, mine is on a B-type in love in an A-type! Think Fifty First Dates, but across fifty lifetimes.”

“I didn’t care for that movie. Adam Sandler’s character was a bit of a creep.”

“Creep? How so?”

“Who cares?” Micha said, “Adam Sandler is creepy in all of his movies, they are basically his own personal spank bank of self-congratulations and off-color humor. To the point: I think half our class wrote stories about A-types and B-types. Just because one person is a fake, doesn’t mean the whole thing is a  _ scam. _ ”

They all sat for a moment, and Mahreen said, “Yeah, but my dad is taking it that way.”

“Mine, too,” said Micha, pushing a strand of honey blonde behind her ear.

“Not mine,” said Jo. “He tested as an A-type though his company, and went to that conference in Pennsylvania a few weeks ago? One of the B-types --the Smithsonian tested ones-- remembered him and ended up crying on him for like, half an hour. Those were some wild snaps.”

“Whaaat?!” Micha vaulted out of her chair and landed in Jo’s lap, “You did not tell me this! Why did you not tell me this?!” Micha crushed their cheeks together with a fish-lipped pout.

“G’roff yuu!” Jo shoved her away with a smile, and they bat at one another playfully until the group settled in.

“Well? What did your dad find out?”

“They knew each other during  _ \--I kid you not-- _ the American Revolution. According to James, it was the last time he knows of where so many B-types were around. Like, a good chunk of the founding fathers? B-types. All I could think to ask him was whether or not they liked Obama. He, of course, had no idea because he hasn’t seen them this lifetime. My dad and him were friends from childhood, and my dad died  _ in his arms _ when they were at one of the Revolution battles.”

“Seriously?” Mahreen said, she looked like she could have vibrated off her chair, she had leaned forward and her fingers were digging into the arm of her seat. She kept shifting, and Derek realized he was doing the same.

“What was the most interesting thing he said?” Derek asked, seeing exactly how close they’d all pulled to Jo, surrounding her. She sat back, and looked at the glass wall suspiciously.

“It wasn’t something he said, really,” she murmured, “but...he kept saying he knew that he’d run into dad. He didn’t question it at all. You know how some people just cry in relief when they find a lost pet, or their kid in the store? But they keep saying they knew everything would be okay, or that they’d find them? It was like that, but less doubtful. I wanted to ask him about it, but...it seemed private.”

The gathered students hummed and hypothesized, and, eventually, got to reading their stories and giving their feedback. Derek realized later, he forgot to tell Micha ‘hi’ for George.

 

Derek was lounging on Chowder’s bed, going over another poem for his studio “final”, which would take place on the last day of finals week. It wasn’t really a grade, per say, but the whole group was going to a local pub downtown and participating in their open mic. The challenge was to share three poems or a short story. The writing wasn’t going well. Derek had a sensation like cotton balls stuck in his throat, right above his voicebox. He knew the emotions he wanted to present, but the metaphors wouldn’t form, sticking in his throat around the cotton and slowly suffocating him. “Gah,” he huffed. He turned to look at Chowder and Dex, Dex was at Chris’ desk typing away so fast that Derek couldn’t even hear individual clicks, and Chowder stretched across the floor, nearly blending in with the sharks throw blanket he was on top of.

“Whelp,” Derek said, “I need a pie break --who’s with me?”

“Oooh, me! If I look at any more code, I’m going to go cross-eyed!”

“I’m going to finish compiling this, and I should be good for the afternoon. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in like, five minutes.” His code typing didn’t even slow down, which, considering Derek’s experiences with typing while talking, was  _ annoyingly _ impressive.

Chowder and Derek thunder down the stairs, skidding into the kitchen in an unspoken race to the fridge. Derek slaps it first, already breathing out laughter as he turns and Chowder beams, a miniature sun.

_ My universe; a house _

_ dilapidated, worn, and drooping. _

_ The walls are stained, _

_ a few are broken, _

_ and there are more secrets here than counting. _

_ My family; the stars _

_ bright shining, warm and distant. _

_ Some will shimmer, _

_ some will burn, _

_ and each stays with me, persistent. _

_ My heart; a nebula, _

_ ice, and stone, and shattered. _

_ Stardust swirling, _

_ cold and lonely, _

_ birthing dreams remembered. _

The poem needs some work --the first phrase describes a physical house compared to a universe, while the rest describe the universe that is metaphorically parts of himself, but...it isn’t awful. “Aaaahhhh,  _ hangonjustaminuteIjusthadabrainblast! _ ”

“Huh?!” Chowder called after him as he trampled back up the stairs to burst into Chris’s room at top speed, diving for his notebook before he forgot any of the words.

“AAaahh!” Dex shriek-yelped, knocking pencils and pens off the desk along with a few odds and ends of Chris’.

“Sorry! Creative genius struck!” Derek started to scribble, even as Dex shot him nasty looks while picking up the scattered items. He finished scratching out the verses in record time, then leaned over, and flicked a pencil. Dex righted it.

With a smile, Derek flicked the pencil again. Dex growled, and righted it.

Derek reached over, “Don’t.”

He snorted, “You could move the pencil, Dexy.”

“No, I can’t.”

Derek laughed, and snapped the notebook shut to jog back down the stairs.

Chowder had the oven preheating, and was digging through the fridge to decide on one of the  _ many _ pies there, half eaten and filled with the stress of their poor, baking junior. “We have blueberry crumble, chocolate pecan, some kind of creme pie, and what looks like a peach, but smells like  _ not _ peach?”

“Honey peach,” Derek said, without looking.

“Maybe,” Chowder replied. “I’m eating the chocolate pecan!”

“You’re going to get it all in your braces, bro.”

“Not if I’m careful!”

Derek chuckled. “So, how are you feeling about your project?” he asked, pulling down plates and trying to find some forks. There weren’t any clean ones, so he dug into the dishwasher and began to scrub a pair. Chowder pulled out the pie, and raised a brow at Derek who nodded. Chowder cut two slices and put the rest of the pie back into the fridge. Derek finished scrubbing the forks, and set the dishwasher to run. He made a mental note to empty it again before Bitty got back from visiting his friend. Derek highly suspected he was out visiting Shitty or Jack, but Bitty clearly didn’t want to say and Derek was chill enough to give him that privacy.

“My coding is going fine. I’m really having trouble with the back-end Java-to-machine code stuff? I usually have Dex go over it when it isn’t compiling, but he tends to not want to help me if it compiles and it just isn’t working right. Keeps telling me to make junk-code notes so I don’t get so lost in my own code.”

“Does it help?”

_ “Yes.” _ Chowder pouts, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s what’s annoying about it. He’s probably already done --our professor this year runs this compiling and speed process contest, right? If your program can’t compile in a certain amount of seconds, he won’t accept it, and whoever develops the program that runs the fastest is the only person who gets a hundred, unless it’s a tie.” Chowder holds up a finger and points to the oven, “pre-heat light is off.” He carefully dons an oven mitt and pulls out the middle rack. They place down the three pie slices on their plates and close up the oven, setting the timer for eight minutes.

“And? Do you win?”

“ _ No.  _ Dex does, though. He and I would work on our projects together last year, but the programing basics class didn’t have ranking in any way, so I never realized just how much better he was than the rest of us.”

Derek frowned, “I’m sure that isn’t true, you’re freaky smart sometimes.”

“As freaky smart as Tango?”

They chuckle, “Yes, as freaky smart as Tango. Damn that was so weird when he whipped out that whole A-type B-type speech.”

“Sw’awesome, though.”

Derek nodded.

“Seriously, though, Dex is a programming beast. He wins the speed test three out of five times, and of the two he doesn’t straight-out win, he’s in second by a _ tiny  _ fraction of a second. It’s Sw’awesome, except for the times that I remember he takes about half the time to code his projects that I do.”

Derek frowned, “I hate to ask, but...is he cheating? That sounds like a suspiciously short amount of time.”

“Nursey!” Chowder admonished, slapping at his friend’s shoulder hard enough to sting even through his sweater, “That is not nice! ...And I watched him program once from over his shoulder. He’s just that good. He’s really good at breaking down steps for the computer and he spent some time last year developing mini-programs to deal with a lot of processes that the rest of us keep typing into our main programs. It saves him typing time.”

“Wow, I--” Derek had no idea Dex was that good. “I didn’t know.”

Another inkling of a poem set in, incomplete, but solid.

_ I didn’t bother to know you now, _

_ I’m not sure if I ever have. _

_ a thousand lifetimes have come and passed, _

_ what lessons could I have learned from you? _

“Huh. I think a break was a good idea.”

“Yeah? Inspiration striking again?”

“Yeah, it’s chill though, not as hardcore as that last burst. But I think I know the theme I want to go with, at least.”

“Yeah?”

“Secrets, bro. Hidden things,” Derek shrugged, “Things omitted, or overlooked.”

~~_ The lights in your eyes hold a secret, my love. _ ~~

Maybe not that exact line.

Dex trundled down the stairs just as the oven timer went off. Chris pulled out the pies and Derek stared at his hand. He’d forgotten to wash a third fork. Dex rolled his eyes, and took Chowder’s before he could dig into his slice.

“You’re going to get pecan all in your braces,” Dex said.

“Not if I’m careful!” Chowder said, pouting. Dex snorted, and hooked a chunk of pie off the end of his pie, eating it. Chowder pouted harder, his face scrunching up the way a baby’s does just before it starts to wail. Dex smiled, and scooped up some of Chowder’s chocolate pecan slice, holding it up. Chowder’s eyes flicked from the fork to Dex’s face.

Then he smiles, all silver metal brackets and sunshine, opens his mouth, and lets Dex feed him pie.

 

On the day of his studio reading, Derek had already turned in his short story, his comparative lit essay, and taken his biology exam, and his communications exam had been that morning. Derek was thoroughly ready to go home for break, but first, he had to get through today. He was driving home the day after tomorrow with Dex, of all people, because he couldn’t get out of it when Ransom had given him soft, brown puppy eyes. The fact that the senior couldn’t hold them for more than thirty seconds without cracking into a shit-eating grin only made it more adorable. Derek would have resented him for it, but afterwards both of his co-captains made sure to pull him aside and ask if it was really alright.

_ “You don’t have to. It’s just, you guys are fighting a lot less these days, and it would be a good bonding opportunity.” _ Ransom had said. _ “I wasn’t even thinking when I brought it up that it might not be comfortable for you.” _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “Dude,” _ Holster said, scratching at his recently trimmed hair and fidgeting with a stray curl.  _ “Not even a month ago he sort of molested you. I know! I know, not really molested, but still, he put his hands on you while you were naked without permission and you sort of went weird about it, bro. We just want you to know that we were dicks for not thinking about that and we have your back. One hundy percent. So if you’re not cool --I mean,” _ he shuffled awkwardly, too large for the small front hall of the Haus,  _ “if you’re not alright with it, just say the word and we’ll let Dex know to drive alone.” _

It had been surprisingly sweet, and Derek felt a small sort of bashfulness as he remembered it. Nobody would have offered such an apology to him at Andover --he was the black kid on the  _ hockey team _ , playing  _ defense _ . The closest he may have gotten would have been a ‘my bad, bro,’ while whoever it was looked him up and down, appraising his, not unfit, body.

Derek calmly sipped his chai latte, tapping his pen on the corner of a notebook. He had three pretty solid poems for tonight, but he never discounted for sudden inspiration. He was wrapped up in his sweater, the one that had been at the end of his bag when his pens had burst. Thankfully the pen ink had come out. Neither Bitty nor Lardo had the solution, however.  _ Dex _ had shown him how to dab it with, of all things, vinegar and  _ hairspray.  _ There was a slightly darker patch near the hem, but it had come out otherwise unmarked.

He was wearing a beanie that matched it, and he was due to meet--

“Hi, Derek, sorry I’m late!”

“Hey, Jo, you’re chill. Sup?”

The dark-haired girl dropped several shopping bags at the feet of the chair across from Derek, all of them decorated with a festival of snowflakes and boxy, graphic red and green presents. Derek raised a brow.

“I saw the cutest sweaters in the faux-vintage shop off of the south quad. I ended up getting some gifts for my mom and sisters.”

“Cool,” Derek said, “I would have ordered you a coffee, but I didn’t want to run the chance of it getting cold. Go ahead and settle in, what would you like to drink? Any snack?”

Jo giggled, a fetching flush across her nose from the cold, “I can get my own coffee, Der.”

He shrugged a shoulder again. “It’s chill,” he replied, stepping away to the counter and joining the queue.

“Vanilla Chai!” she decided, “and a pumpkin muffin?”

“You got it.”

He waited, ordered, paid, and returned to the table, happily listening to the calm buzz of activity around the shop. It wasn’t the over-familiar Annie’s or Jerry’s, it was a hole in the wall called Mochas and Javas just off west campus. Derek liked it because the student vibe was full swing with colorful, eclectic decor, indirect lights, and live acoustic musicians on Thursdays, but the student crowds were usually absent. Derek was in often enough that his own mug, a red and white Hello Kitty affair that he’d sharpied the Samwell Logo onto, was on one of the “regulars’ mugs” pegboard behind the counter. Derek had opted not to use it while meeting with Jo, the thought of using it at all with people he  _ knew _ made a small corner of his stomach shrivel and ache.

“So,” he said, dropping her drink in front of her and settling back into the wooden seat, “how did your story do?”

She preened at him, “Mine was okay. It sort of got lost in all the sappy romantic reincarnation stories. There were… a lot.” She sipped her coffee, dipping her sow eyes downward to flutter thick, mascara coated lashes across her high, freckled cheekbones.

“Yeah,” he commiserated, stretching out his legs and casually knocking his knee into hers, jeans and cotton spandex meeting with a press of body-heat, “Mine, too.” He had always thrived on cliche, though, so he was used to the casual dismissal of their professor in a way Jo clearly was not. It wasn’t an obvious disappointment, but her eyes were a tad tight at the corner when he mentioned it.

“How were the rest of your finals? Are you planning to stay here over break, or are you leaving soon?”

Derek shrugged, “I’m pretty sure I passed. With Biology, that might be all we can hope for. I do have my poetry studio’s reading tonight. We’re going to take over open mic at Heartwood, and then tomorrow afternoon my D-man partner and I will drive out. My parents would normally come get me, but they’re out of town.”

Out of country, but Derek didn’t want to seem as though he was bragging.

“Oh really? Where to?”

“Nowhere special, visiting some family friends for some dull anniversary thing.” He’s pretty sure they are, anyway.

“Will they be back for Christmas, or are you going to join them?”

Derek glanced around, then back to Jo, a sweetly sour spark in his stomach started to whisper. Jo did have nice freckles. Nothing amazing, nothing particularly double-take worthy was in her simple, comfortable clothes, or plainly made-up face. She had a blemish on her jaw, three rings through each  _ small _ ear…

but she had nice freckles.

Derek had been  _ really into _ freckles the last year.

Derek leaned forward, mouth pulling up, tilting his shoulders just so to show off their breadth, and face just a tad downturned to show off the color of his eyes. “I’m not sure yet, we’re pretty chill around my house,” he purred, low in his chest and soft like roses. Jo pinks, and leans in, like their sharing a secret. “I may end up all alone on Christmas, it’s happened before.”

_ Truer statements never said…. _

_...something something something bed? _

He’d figure it out later.

“You could call me if that happened,” Jo was quick to suggest.

Derek buzzed, the feeling crawling across his skin like silken spider legs, “I could…”

 

Derek walked into Heartwood with Portman and Iggy, the only other boys in his studio. He was loose-limbed and warm-happy after having taken Jo back to his dorm for the afternoon. If it was a different, more freckle-full, back he imagined lying underneath him, it was nobody’s business but his own. He’d made sure she’d had plenty of good things to say about him before gently scuttling her out of his door.

Portman and Iggy had high-fived him when he explained the why of his tardiness, though complained when he told them gentlemen did not kiss and tell _.  _ “Nah, Bros, it’s wicked uncool to pull names into it,” he said, “you don’t know who has a hangup over their own sexual liberty, or their levels of privacy. I don’t mind letting you know  _ why _ I’m all sex-head, but it would be  _ hells _ of rude to tell you I got my freak on with.”

Portman snorted, and flicked back a piece of fried-bleach hair. He was the sort who always looked a little like a weasel, and sometimes acted like one, too. Sex was on his brain like the average american male, and Derek and Iggy both took it upon themselves to curb some of his worse behaviors.

“Yeah, but when you ditch her, how will we know who to comfort?”

“Who would want your comfort?” Iggy shot back with a grin, Derek playfully shoved them both, the press muted under a layer of fleece-lined leather. The pub greets them with a blast of hot air that smells like spicy grease, coffee, hops, and the ever-pervading winter-time scent of skin-warmed wool.

“HEY!!! THERE IS THE SEXIEST POET EVER TO KNOW IT!!!” The booming voice silenced all the other patrons for a split second of shocked horror before someone behind the bar muttered.

“God damn it, it’s the hockey team.”

“YOU’RE WELCOME!” Holster boomed again, twisting to grin blindingly at the scruffy mustachioed man behind the counter. The regular noise returned to the room, a little duller, but present.

“Holster! Keep your voice down, you are inside a building!” Bitty said, swatting at one huge shoulder. It had all the effect of a gnat chastising a horse until there was a muttered threat, possibly over pie, that had the bigger of the two blondes scooting low in his seat.

Derek waved with a hand, “Yo,” he said, pulling Iggy and Portman over, both a little horrified.

“Dude, dude, no --we can’t go over there,” Portman hissed, “Those are  _ hockey bros!! _ They apparently throw some sick parties but they are also the most jock group on campus outside football. Derek, you know cliches! You are buff and brown, we get it, but Iggy and me are tiny twig twinks! We will  _ die! _ ”

Derek could feel his jaw going slack and sounds around them fading with a rush of blood in his ears as he looked at his classmate, then to his other friend, and found Iggy shrinking behind him, looking up from under his honey-colored lashes to fix fearful blue eyes at the group of bros gathered at the big booth by the bar ten feet from the mic ‘stage’.

“ _ I’m _ on the hockey team,” he says. “I-- _ what? _ Who do you think we  _ are?! _ ”

Two stunned eyes turned to him, a ridiculous pair of owls, framed in the neon on the walls and the lights from the street outside. He grabbed each by the elbow and steered them to the table. “Holster, Bitty, you are on welcoming duty, my bros. My buddies here are apparently in need of reassurance that the hockey team won’t eat them.”

Almost before he was done speaking a tupperware was whisked up from below the table, “Any food allergies, sugar?”

“Uh,” said Portman.

“Ah,” said Iggy.

Holster scooted Ransom, facedown on the table and for all intents and purposes dead, down a seat on the bench and bullied both twiggy Iggy and slender-like-a-weed Portman into the vacancy, one arm across the span of both their shoulders and still having some room at the end.

It probably helped that they both had their shoulders at their ears, taking up as little room as possible.

“Hi, little bros! Pound it,” Holster said, holding out a fist.

“I love your hair!” Bitty said to Iggy, quickly piling hand pies in front of the other. “I love the idea of bright colors in my hair, but, well,  _ blonde _ .” Bitty twirled one of the longer locks at the top of his head, “I went swimming one summer and didn’t wash off quite properly. I had green hair for a month and my momma thought it was cute, but lord such an embarrassment I don’t think I’ll ever get over. Traumatized on hair dye ever since.”

Iggy’s hand raised to his hair, a flashy black and white mess with buzzed sides. “Mine’s normally brown. You really like it?”

“Of course! Oh, try one of the hand pies! I’m experimenting with Apricots.”

Portman was already tucked into Holster like a little sister munching on pie and staring upwards adoringly at the senior’s tale-telling. From the motions, the old one about Jack chasing off the football team.

Derek nodded, and turned to locate their professor and check them in.

A few more minutes passed, Derek ordered a round of beer with his fake ID to the approving nod of his professor, the last of the studio arrived alone or in pairs, and the microphone was being set up. Soon Rozlyn would be up. She had taken initiative to take mic first and Derek wasn’t sure if the swirling in his gut was jealousy or sickness for her.

“Hey,” said someone by their booth, voice rough and low and familiar.

Derek turned to see Dex looking down at him expectant, one eyebrow cocked. He looked --the pink neons in the dimmed pub backlit him fantastically, taking his carrotish hair and turning red like wine, and turning his fair, freckled skin a fleshy rose dusted in black stars. His eyes looked otherworldly, golden and pink at once. All of it stood in stark contrast where the dark shadows almost absorbed him, making his whole body seem like a painting of light in a dark room.

“Uh,” Derek said, intelligently.

“Move, Nurse. Or am I pulling up a chair?”

Derek moved. Dex slid in next to him, taking the booth from ‘a little elbow room’ to ‘crowded, really crowded’. Bitty, flushed with alcohol raised up one hand and Dex grabbed it as the junior giggled and snorted out his hello.

_ Oh holy shit is this what torture is? _

Poindexter’s shift in position did not dampen the eerie effect of the neon at all, and now they were pressed together knee to shoulder. The air was heavier than a minute previous, the heat off Dex’s body radiating like a villainous poison deep into Derek’s flesh. The red-head wasn’t looking at Derek at all, content to lean forward and steal the beer Ransom, still facedown despite the rising revelry of the pub, had yet to touch. “Who are you?” he asked, and Iggy pointed at himself dumbly while Portman didn’t seem to notice the new arrival at all, still enraptured with Holster, who was only  _ too happy  _ to find someone on campus who’d not heard all his stories.

“My classmates,” Derek replied, “Portman and Iggy.”

“Those nicknames?”

“No. Portman goes by his last name because he’s pretentious and Iggy’s mom had an obsession with Iggy Pop.”

Dex shrugged. “Right. Hi.”

_ “Hello, patrons!” _

Derek jumped, and glared at Dex, who smirked at him, all glitzy lights and coquettish smirk.

_ In these lights you look like sex, _

_ like overheated passion, _

_ mysteries at your fingertips, _

_ and hidden in the crease of you lips. _

_ I want to eat them down. _

Derek shifted his hips, everything too tight and too much, then muttered a quick prayer of forgiveness. He shifted closer to Dex, twisting to see the makeshift stage and Roz stepping up to the microphone with her darkest lipstick like warpaint on her sallow skin. With a roiling, acid stinging self-hatred, he moved closer, until his chest was on Dex’s shoulder, the other’s knife-like elbow just at the slightly-softer portion of his underbelly.

Roz took eight minutes to share her four poems, and Derek, if pressed, wouldn’t be able to say later what any of them were about. Something rousing, from the vague recollections he had from the faces of the people beyond Dex’s profile, all lit up in rose-colored fire and smoky shadows.

Someone new stepped up, and Derek didn’t know who or care a whit. The lights had flipped from pink to blue, a bright turquoise, and Dex was washed in cooling light that sent electric sparks down Derek’s spine, like he’d swallowed poprocks.

The heat was unbearable.

Derek spent most of the wait for his turn side-eyeing Poindexter from less than six inches away, and utterly enraptured.

Another of his studio-mates went up, then down, then another, then another until Derek lost track of the microphone completely. The neon occasionally flickered between colors, and Derek was flushed with new sparks with every rainbow cascade across Dex’s cheekbones. The yellows flushed him like fire, making his freckles nearly invisible, the purple sunk the other into deep, mysterious shadows like blood, orange brought out the flickering lights of his eyes, and blue made him look like a ghost in white and navy.

His shoulder was shoved, and Dex swam out of sight as he was swept around by a force on his shoulder.

Iggy’s mouth was moving.

_ What? _

“What?”

“Your turn, D!”

_ “WHAT?!” _

Derek looked up at the mic, sure enough, Portman was giving his sarcastic bows and their professor was rolling his eyes at the skinny teen while sipping a beer.

_ Do I remember all my lines? Is my hair puffy? How many people are even here? What has everyone been saying?! _

Derek calmly stood, winking at his table and reaching for his tiny pocket notebook at he got to the low platform that functioned as the stage. He reached the mic, and adjusted it higher, tapped gently on the surface to check if Portman turned it off and was rewarded with a soft bapping sound from the amps on either side of him.

Derek ran some fingers through his hair, “Hey, people of the city, how are we doing tonight?” The hockey team wolf-whistled, and there was a small chorus of applause. “Good evening, my name is Derek, and I’ve got a few poems for you tonight,” Derek couldn’t feel his legs, and could only hope that they kept him upright the whole duration of his time on the mic. “My inspirations come from mysteries, secrets, and the existence of reincarnation. None of these are titled, so let’s get to it, right?”

Derek wafted the air, encouraging a small swell of applause and well-wishers, then found the dog-eared page of his pocket notebook, and spoke.

_ “Once upon a time, _

_ is an overused beginning, _

_ but I’ve started to wonder, _

_ if you used it to hide. _

_ The gaps in your memories, _

_ they’re growing larger, _

_ the hole getting bigger, _

_ have you sunk inside? _

_ Did you change the beginnings, _

_ because you’ve lost the memory, _

_ of all the specifics, _

_ of places and time? _

_ Or maybe you’re holding, _

_ something dear and important. _

_ Something close to your heart, _

_ you will not confide? _

_ I understand secrets, _

_ and even tiny, white lies, _

_ but can it be so horrific, _

_ that I could not abide?” _

Derek took a breath, pausing to gauge the audience and grinned at his crowd, and their scattered snapping fingers. He blew a kiss to a woman at the bar who was probably in for a beer after work, her clothes were business attire.

_ “I could spend a billion years at your side and never know it. _

_ I trail after you like a dog at the heels of his master, _

_ and I’m given no more regard than that when I look at you, _

_ begging for approval and seeing pale disinterest. _

_ Your company is kept by none, and you share so little, _

_ even small stories are treasures to keep locked up, _

_ lest small, idle fingers sneak in to steal back your mysteries. _

_ I don’t remember any life beyond my own, and neither do you,  _

_ or so I imagine. _

_ But there in your eyes something shimmers sometimes, _

_ laughter you won’t give in to, or a memory left unspoken. _

_ Why don’t you talk to me? What did I do to offend you? _

_ I can’t figure it out, and you refuse to tell me.” _

Derek looked out at the pub, and the vague figures made of shadows in their seats. The stones in his belly were settling, and his knees had more force to them again. Dex was at the corner of the hockey team’s booth, all clapping and hooting save for the lone red-head on the edge of the u-shaped bench, deep line of his frown radiating disappointment.

The colored neon still painted him in vegas-horror beauty, and the poem that had split across his head a week ago, about houses that were universes and equally undiscovered as the residents inside, was hovering on the tip of his tongue.

Looking at Dex, something else came out instead, a poem that hat percolated his whole wait for the microphone.

_ “In these lights you look like sex, _

_ like overheated passion, _

_ mysteries at your fingertips, _

_ and hidden in the crease of your lips.” _

Derek took a shaky breath, wincing as the microphone made it louder than the rushing under his skin. He looked away from Dex --who, even from this distance was sitting up straight like the pole up his ass had been rammed in up to his skull and he’d been told to clench. Every line of his body was tight and drawn up, horror evident on his achingly beautiful, pitifully plain face.

_ “In these lights you could be anyone, _

_ a passing stranger under neon, _

_ all bold angles and shadows, _

_ looking for company in the night. _

_ In these lights you look ethereal, _

_ like your world is a place, _

_ but one we cannot touch, _

_ and can only glimpse in passing.” _

Derek’s eyes passed over his audience. He met each eye in turn, and between him and them, there is a zinging pressure unlike anything he’s ever known. It builds in his chest and his voice, not quite air, not quite honey, not quite lightning, not quite stone.

_ “In these lights you are a human being, _

_ completely whole, completely unknown, _

_ each neon flash a new hint, _

_ to the great, glowing secret in your eyes. _

_ In these lights I admit, _

_ to pining for your hidden places, _

_ to stripping you bare in my imagination, _

_ I ache to drink your secrets down. _

_ But, _

_ In the daylight I remember, _

_ the glow of your mysteries, _

_ and the shadows of your soul, _

_ will never be given to me.” _

Derek smiled, and something felt off about it, he tried to pull it wider, disarming, and it still felt wrong, and ill-fitted to his face. He nodded to the clapping, replacing the notebook in his back pocket where it felt disquietly heavy. He nodded to his professor, who was clapping and nodding, he nodded to a few of the girls in the studio, who were wiping their eyes, he tripped off the platform and caught himself almost without thought, and made his way over to the hockey team’s table as the last member of the studio, a mousy girl with more cardigans in her closet than Derek, took the last slot of the night. His feet were buoyant, like they weren't quite sticking to the ground, his chest overfilled with air, along with his head. It was...

_ Effervescent life, I feel your giddy joy. _

Derek reached the table, and the first thing he noticed was that Dex was nowhere to be found.

“Hehe...bathroom?” he asked, pointing to Dex’s place, still floating lighter than air.

“Oh honey that last one was gorgeous, I mean, I’m not exactly stellar with poetry, or english in general what with being from the south and all, but it had some  _ fire _ in it!”

“Dude, why did you not pull that out during studio?” asked Iggy.

“Bro, BRO. I am moved. I feel _sexy!_ ”

“Bro! Holster is saying exactly what I’m feeling! That was sw’awesome!”

“Guys? Dex?” Derek interrupted. 

Bitty looked around at the table, who all shifted side to side, and not meeting Derek’s eyes. “He, ah, walked off right at the end. Stormed out like he was going to find something to hit that wasn’t you,” the tiny blonde said at last. The junior passed over the last of the hand pies as though that would make his words feel less like a bullet through Derek’s stomach, leaving him deflated. “When you started the last poem, it really looked like you were talking to him. And...well, you’ve been staring at him all night.”

“Dude,” said Ransom, “We didn’t realize you felt like that about him. I mean... _ do _ you feel that way about him?”

Derek would give anything, literally anything, up to and including his life not to be present at this conversation right now, but that was no way to get jocks off your back about anything, so he smoothed over the pebbles in his voice box by taking a swig of beer, and said with as much power as his voice could pretend to have half of the truth; “I would bang that boy like a screen door in a hurricane. Ever hear that Miley Cyrus song Ten Things I Hate About You? Where she hates everything about this crap douchebag’s personality, but loves his body? Like that. Everything about him pushes a button, and while I do sort of want to kill him some days, others I want a different sort of fighting, and not necessarily on a bed.”

The others around the table winced, “Tough luck, Brother,” Ransom said at last.

"I _know_ , right?"

“How are you going to get home tomorrow?” asked Holster.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to talk it out with Dex and we’ll see,” Derek said, already feeling the knots of anticipation curling up in his stomach and chest, vile and ill. The beer he’d already had rolling heavy and uncomfortable ready to revisit him. “I’m going to see if I can find him.”

“Are you sure?” Holster said, untucking his arm from around Portman, “I can do it.”

Derek waved him off, “Nah, stay. Gabi is just finishing up anyhow, it won’t look weird if I leave."

A table full of worried looks follow him out the door and into the night.

 

The evening air outside is freezing, though the sophomore doesn’t know if that’s because it’s actually cold, or if he’s just numbing himself in preparation for his imminent rejection. He doesn’t know if Dex arrived in his beat-up pickup or if he rode the campus bus, or if he, for whatever Dex-logical reason, chose to walk, but walk is what Derek can do, so he picks a direction at random and begins to walk down the quiet street.

The doors he passes for various stores have their displays dimly lit, lightbulbs collecting the few insects willing to brave the cold, while the various bars and restaurants have a little more life to them, though most souls had the sense to stay inside with the heaters. Derek’s breath hovers in frozen clouds with every exhale, and his green eyes dart around the street for any sign of life.

Every few minutes a cat sprints out of sight, and Derek jumps every time.

Each alley he passes is quiet and dark, and Derek doesn’t take much time to look in them.

After ten minutes, he gives up and turns around.

And hears a loud sniff.

It’s down an alley whose only light has been smashed, the tiny glittering shards of glass glinting like frost on the pavement in cold moonlight. Derek pauses.

“H-hey, Dex? Is that you?”

A soft scuffle of shifting cloth.

“Bro? It’s...uh…,” if Derek has the sudden foresight that ‘chill’ might not be a welcome word to Dex at the moment, “it’s really cold out and I need to know if that’s you?”

“Go ‘way, Nurse.”

Derek crept forward, slowly inching over the glass, and around a large dumpster that smelled like rotten vegetables and dog piss. “Bro, it’s gross back here,” Derek said, just as Dex, crouching in his thin jacket, came into view in a streak of moonlight from parted clouds.

The alley was dirty, grime was smeared into every crevice of brick, and unknown substances that Derek did  _ not _ want to identify were ground into the cement under his boots, and Dex, shiny and clean, was bright among the dark grey stones, his orange hair acting as a beacon. His head was ducked down into his knees, as if he’d backed into the alley wall, and slid down to crouch in the filth present in the alley, just a few feet from a dumpster and other refuse.

“God, Dex, this is super gross back here,” Derek started.

“Go away,” Dex said, a little more clearly this time.

Derek took two big steps towards his D-man partner, and then he froze again.

At first, Derek thought he, himself, was shivering from the cold, then, he thought, maybe _Dex_ was shivering. But, while he was starting to get to the point where his nose was going to run, and his teeth were more likely to chatter than not, Dex was curled into himself and the warm clouds of condensation were puffing up from below his arms, and his shoulders were shaking far to violently to be his body’s reaction to cold.

Another sniff, followed by, “Fuck,” which sounded too thick, and full of sorrow.

“D-Dex? C’mon, bro. Let’s get back to Heartwood--”

“Go away!” Dex cried, looking up. Tears were streaming down his face, hatred blazing out of eyes, a firestorm of golden rage, bright and gorgeous and angry. Then he crumpled, an implosion of a supernova, shattering like the streetlight above them, Dex's tears renewing with a choked off sob, teeth grit together, “P-please.”

It was so goddamn broken.

Even red-nosed and snotty, Dex was so goddamn beautiful.

Derek stood up, backing away.

Dex folded down, and his D-man partner watched as he broke down completely.

Derek Nurse turned on a heel and ran away.


	6. Differentiated Heartbeats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek woke up, blearily blinking at the spotted and speckled ceiling of his dorm, a tiny sliver of daylight blooming from the crack of window above his dark head, fuzzy and indistinct, with the distinct impression of something having woken him. Derek turned to the door across his unzipped duffle and the two bags he’d decided to travel with. His dorm was its usual barren waste, blank-walled and empty-seeming, save the odd pen and sheaf of paper that he’d left sloppily on the desk, and the bedding he was currently cocooned in. Another knock echoed, loud and quick in two succinct raps.
> 
> ****chapter contains explicit material at the end. Please note the changed rating****  
>  Said scene contains un-negotiated kink! If that is not your speed, please stop reading at the line "The next whimper was followed with a groan that spiralled into a deep, helpless moan and Derek’s sleepy brain cottoned on to what his eyes couldn’t quite see yet." and return for the very last line.

Derek woke up, blearily blinking at the spotted and speckled ceiling of his dorm, a tiny sliver of daylight blooming from the crack of window above his dark head, fuzzy and indistinct, with the distinct impression of something having woken him. Derek turned to the door across his unzipped duffle and the two bags he’d decided to travel with. His dorm was its usual barren waste, blank-walled and empty-seeming, save the odd pen and sheaf of paper that he’d left sloppily on the desk, and the bedding he was currently cocooned in. Another knock echoed, loud and quick in two succinct raps.

“M’up,” he called to the door, as pathetically as possible. “Just a second.”

“Hurry up, Nurse, we ought to get on the road,” said a muffled voice from beyond the door. It was a familiar tenor that Derek was  _ not  _ expecting today -- or really,  _ ever, _ but today was incredibly somehow even less likely to contain this particular voice.

Derek threw off the comforter and rolled out of bed, thumping loudly on the ground as one leg got twisted up in the soft denim-blue sheet. He pulled free with a kick and in three large, thudding steps, was pulling open the thin particle-wood portal. “Dex!”

The flatly unimpressed amber eyes that greeted him were like tiny gifts of disdain that Derek couldn’t have been happier to see.

“Nurse,” Dex greeted. Derek glanced him over, bundled up in several layers of thin flannel, with mittens dangling off the cuffs of a worn denim jacket. There was a bulge in one pocket that suggested a toque was stuffed inside. None of the flannels matched in color scheme. It was tragic. Derek grinned.

“Sorry, bro, I didn’t get to ask you what time you were coming to get me today.”

Dex snorted, “I should have left your lazy ass. You realize that it’s already eight? We’re going to hit the lunch rush.”

“It’s--”  _ chill _ freezes on his tongue, Derek internally winces at the faint red puffiness around Dex’s eyes, “--going to be okay. I don’t have a particular schedule to worry about.”

“I have  _ gas _ to worry about.”

Derek waves Dex inside, “You realize that I would never let you give me a ride without paying for gas, right? Plus some, because you’re going to have to deal with New York traffic on your way out?”

Dex shrugged, and delicately, as though he were weary of spreading Derek’s cooties on his person, leaned against the desk. He eyed Derek’s bed. Derek is pulling out his shower room caddie when Dex speaks again poking a toe at a hanging corner of sheet, “Are you...going to wash these?”

“I can do it at home.”

“Derek...these sheets are fucking rank. I don’t know how you feel about traveling with the windows down in forty fucking degrees, but I would prefer not to.”

Derek shrugs, “There’s a spray in the closet.”

Derek got about five feet down the hall before his door opened again and Dex called after him, “Dude, are you moving rooms or something? This place is fucking empty.”

That pulled him to a halt, “What? No. I’m bringing my favorite stuff with me and I’ve already shipped my textbooks back, like, three days ago. My hockey stuff is at Faber. I just don’t have a lot that is going to stay in my room over break.”

“Your sheets?”

“You said it yourself that they need to be washed.”

Dex is looking green in a way that clashes horrifically with his hair, “Derek Malik Nurse….have you washed your bedclothes at  _ all _ this semester?”

Derek flashed a glance around the empty hallway, “How...how often do they really need it?”

There was absolute silence from behind him.

“...Nurse. How often do you get laid in your own bed?”

“Fairly often?”

“Then your sheets need it  _ fairly often! _ Fuck where are your laundry quarters?”

“My what?”

“How the  _ fuck _ do you  _ do your laundry?! _ ”

“My RA does it!”

“Go fucking shower you pampered little shit! I’m taking your sheets to the basement to wash! Holy shit, if I find any jizz on them you will be paying for  _ all _ of the gas for this trip and my lunch, and possibly a breakfast if I  _ hurl _ mine all over the laundry facility. Are you clothes clean?! Fuck --don’t answer, I’ll just do them, too. They in that duffle? Yes, they are, good. Do you have a --you don’t launder your own clothes, of course you don’t have a basket. FUCK. You are so lucky that the rest of this forsaken building is probably empty and you’re the only idiot who has laundry to do so we can hog the machines.”

“Hey!” Derek turned, feeling the heat of rage and embarrassment growing over his face. His skin tone was enough to hide it, but his voice cracked over his exclamation. Dex strode out of Derek’s single with bedsheets and comforter over one arm, and Derek’s duffle over his shoulder. He’d peeled out of his outermost layers as well.

The stink eye Dex rolled to him was the sort that, given physical form, would wither nose hairs. “You be quick brushing your teeth and washing up so the door doesn’t stay unlocked. I’ll dump these in the wash and move my truck out of loading.”

“But--”

“No buts! Move! When you’re done, find every hanger you own and set them out on the bed, then re-pack with the clothes you left in the dresser.”

“Some of the duffle is clean!”

“I will find them like any respectable mother --with my nose.  _ Get going! _ ”

Derek wanted to argue, but Dex was already halfway to the elevator bank and flipping the bird over his shoulder. The gaping sophomore left in the hallway resolved to take his time in the restroom for spite. “I’m not a kid,” he muttered to the empty air.

 

True to his word, Dex washed his sheets and clothes, then proceeded to hang everything on hangers all over the room to hang dry. Derek had t-shirts hanging off his ceiling fan. The sheets and comforter were draped carefully over a twine secured across the room, that Derek could only assume came out of Dex’s truck. A towel was laid out under the comforter to catch the drips, then, with alarming alacrity, Dex took the pile of clothes from the dresser and had them packed into the duffle. Derek looked in just before his partner zipped it, and found each shirt, jacket, and pair of pants regimentally folded and easy to identify. Rolls of socks to one side, belts, underwear, and spare shoes tucked neatly around the whole of it, a far cry from the mess of cloth and half-hazzard organization it had been originally.

“My notebooks?”

“In that backpack, with your laptop, pencils, and like, six magazines. Like sane people do.”

“Chargers?”

“Outer pocket of the backpack.”

“Shower stuff?”

“You mean the seven bottles of hair product and four combs? Side pocket of the duffle. You don’t need the caddie at home.”

“Weed?”

Dex shot him another withered look, “That is terrible for your lungs,” he said, pulling out a book from the backpack. It was a thick faux-leather Shakespeare collection. The sort you put on a shelf to look like you do heavy reading in a study or to look nice in a living room next to a crystal vase. A girl he’d briefly dated last year had given it to him, one hundred percent unironically. Dex flipped it open to reveal the hollowed out pocket that hid Derek’s unmentionables.

The red-head cocked up one orange brow with the least impressed look Derek had seen all day.

“Well damn, I didn’t think you’d see that.”

“Shut the fuck up, Nurse. Can we go?”

“Yeah, I--” he looked around at the room, now much less empty appearing, even though Derek knew that once he returned the colorful drapes of cloth festooned around the room would be tucked and folded away again, and the box-like sleeping place would return once more to a drab, grey-beige hollow. “I’m ready to go.”

When Derek shut and locked the door at nine thirty, it looked like it was waiting for him to come back. He shouldered his duffle and followed Dex, already striding down the hall.

 

The ride was quiet to start. At nine on a Friday, not a lot of people were out and about, even fewer with most of the college gone for holidays. Derek broke the silence, “Hey, Dex, can we stop for some breakfast tacos or something? I haven’t eaten for like, twelve hours, and you know how Jack would feel about that.”

Dex snorted, “Try invoking Bitty if you want to convince me,” he replied. “There’s a Breakfast Shack about ten minutes down the road. They have decent eggs and they’re pretty quick at this hour. I don’t want to lose any more time, and you’re not eating in my truck.”

“I’m not going to spill!”

“Full offense: I doubt that.”

“...fair.” Derek didn’t want to annoy his ride too badly before they left arguably easy travel distance from Samwell. He might just leave him for another one of their friends to pick up.

 

The eggs were delicious, and Derek hated them. It was easier than trying to hate the boy across from him.

 

Having lost a good few hours to laundry and eating, the ride out of Massachusetts took almost until lunch, but leave they did, and they had another two and a half hours until Derek would be dropped at his empty brownstone in New York, traffic notwithstanding. The dark-haired boy fiddled with the charging cord of his phone, screen flicked into brightness every few seconds, even as Derek’s gaze lingered more on the passing highway and trees than brightly lit iPhone. “Are you sure you want to avoid the tollways?”

“Nurse, I’m not paying to use a public road. Not even if you’re footing the bill. I’m sorry, but I’m morally against it. The idea that roads can be privatized or paid for via billing is absurdist and bad fiscal practice. why build something you don’t have the money for? Why use a road at all if you must pay? I thought we got rid of that with the downfall of feudal economic systems.”

“I’m just...Poindexter, it will save us some time, and you’re already driving four hours out of your way to drop me off. That’s like...a whole day of driving added to your trip.”

Dex shrugs. “I said I would to Ransom and Holster. You have seen Ransom’s stupid puppy face, right? If it got any more anime I would break into hives.”

Nurse bristled, a full body shiver, “You don’t like sushi at all, do you?” True, he wasn’t much for anime, either, but Dex didn’t have to brush it off like he would get ill from it.

“We have never been, nor will we ever go, to a sushi place, Nurse. Nor, upon pain of death, will we ever go a place that is  _ not _ a sushi restaurant and eat sushi  _ there _ . That is a worse sort of stupid.”

Then and there Nursey knows that not only are they going to go to Momiji’s Sushi before leaving New York, Nursey knows he is going to get Dex to eat unagi, edamame, and something -- _ anything _ \-- with an octopus tentacle in it. Dex glanced at him from the corner of his eye, quickly flicking the yellow irises back to the road like a good grandma driver.

“Why are you smiling, Nurse?”

“No reason,  _ chill _ .”

“ _ Ugh! _ ”

Derek laughed, the sound bubbling up from his chest enough to make him slap a hand over his nose to keep from snorting. The quiet smog of apprehension started to dissipate with a ridiculous plan set in place to see the usual scowl set over the russet features of his companion. The scowl that was directed at him, crinkling the corners of stern eyes and turning down an even sterner corner of thin lips. An expression much more suited to the other than the shivering lump Derek ran from in an alley not twelve hours previous, or the sullenly driver that wouldn’t speak unless spoken to.

“We’re going to get into New York pretty late,” Derek ventured, “Let me treat you to dinner before you go, at least.”

Dex opened his mouth to argue, and Derek stuffed his headphones into his ears, “Sorry, bro, my bad --I can’t hear you!”

_ “You aren’t listening to anything!” _

“--Not a thing!--”

_ “Damnit Nurse, I could turn this truck around!” _

A giggle and a snort, “--What?”

Dex’s words devolved into growling squeaks of rage and Derek collapsed into his window, trembling with laughter that, just barely, eases the squeeze in his lungs.

 

Derek had broken silence just a few more times between Connecticut and New York City, Dex as resolutely silent as a man walking into a graveyard. The trivial talk and responses grew weaker and more reluctant with every passing hour, and eventually Derek was rethinking his dinner plan. It may be better to enact when Dex didn’t look like every sharp press of a cabbie’s horn would jerk him out of his spotted skin-suit. Derek was tired down to his bones after several hours stuck inside the cab of the pretty powder-blue truck. There was the slightest tinge of gasoline to the air blowing merrily warm from the vents, and it was turning Derek from nauseated to headachy in turns.

On one hand, if he asked Dex to stay for just another hour to get a bite, he could spend more time with him, on the other, if he didn’t, he could just go up those several flights of stairs central to the house interior and collapse on his bed to sleep.

Dex flinched again, though Derek only saw it because he was looking at the other directly. A simple shiver of movement, half hidden in a jacket. He was glancing around at street corners, almost bewildered, staring upwards at the rising skyscrapers that passed almost to the point of distraction. He was swallowing convulsively, Derek saw it in the repeated up and down motion of his adam’s apple.

“Hey,” Derek said.

“Hm?”

“Stay for dinner,” Derek said,  _ you look like you need a paper bag and a few deep breaths, _ he didn’t say. “My moms aren’t home right now, so the company would be nice, even if the company is you.”

“You’re going home to an empty house?”

“Yeah, they’ll be back later.”

“Ugh, fine, but only because I’m going to need to fuel up for the return drive.”

“Chill, man, thanks.”

“Seriously?”

Derek waves off the look and starts pointing towards his neighborhood, “You still have a few miles to go, but my house is--”

“I GPSed it, you’re good.”

Derek smirked, “Okay, okay, don’t get it twisted. Tell me when you give up and need help.”

Dex snorted, light but derisive, “That’s not gonna happen, greenie.”

“Suit yourself,” the other D-man replied. He would give Dex ten minutes before breaking down and asking the quickest route.  _ GPSed _ Derek’s brown ass --lobster-kid didn’t even have his phone out for  _ charging. _ The way he was looking up at the buildings and not at street signs would have him dead-lost as any other newcomer to the city in short order. Despite his headache, Derek would help him. Just before Dex totally raged out and cancelled dinner.

 

Derek gaped at his house like it was a foreign embassy. “You did it,” he muttered, “I didn’t have to help you here at all!”

“I navigate on boats, Nurse. What the actual fuck.”

“You have never been to New York, though! I’m--I’m” --incredibly impressed-- “Well, I owe C money!”

Derek didn’t, but it would cover up any residual awe in his voice. The green-eyed boy also took a moment to vow never to offer to drive a boat, because the only thing keeping him centered in his city were the orderly streets covered in signage that pointed his way home and the occasional pestering of a bike courier.

Dex’s yellow eyes, just yellow in the faint pink of early dusk through city mug, rolled in his sockets like they were attempting escape from his skull. Faint puffs of condensation hovering over his mouth. “Haha, let’s get your things.”

 

The first thing that Dex said upon entering the house was not a word at all, but a long, low whistle that echoed up the staircase just past the foyer that curved gently upwards for two floors in polished, shiny, dark wood. The walls were the color of baked brie, and each pop of dark red and evergreen artfully staged by Mama’s decorator to subtly hint at Christmas without outright stating it bloomed brightly across the walls and in the abstract whorls of a new front carpet. Derek stamped his feet on it to shake the chill from the endcaps of his boots while Dex shook out his fingers, ungloved during the short walk from the beater truck to the front stoop.

“Help me get it all upstairs?” Derek tried.

Something thick and guilty swam in his belly, a quiet loop of  _ he was crying and you left him, some friend you are, _ with an added twinge of  _ he doesn’t like you, he doesn’t like you, he DOESN’T LIKE YOU _ filtering through his lizard hindbrain. For having been witness to Dex’s breakdown the night before, the other sophomore was being uncharacteristically forgiving today. Pushing for a little more time together felt simultaneously like the sour jolt of chewing aluminum foil and the metallic twang of tonguing the bitten insides of one’s cheek. Painful, but the sort of pain that only bleeds into a further pitiful inspection, like the next jab might not hurt.

Dex, wordlessly, heaved the duffle over his shoulder and waved an arm up the stairs.

Derek grabbed the rest of his things and carefully maneuvered the load upwards. The stairs beneath his feet creaked under the carpet runner that flowed like a wine-colored fall up the staircase. The first story up went fine, if slow, but Derek didn’t argue when Dex took one of the bags from him and motioned pointedly to the handrail to continue to the top floor.

The second floor, on passing glance closely matched the colors on the first floor, but only had a wall of books and accent chairs visible to the public eye. The third didn’t have a public space at all, only a small landing before the face of a plain, dark door with a row of nondescript prints of nothing in particular leading the landing at the front of the house where large windows were in entirely the wrong place to catch any of the late afternoon light.

Derek opened the door.

The inside was pristine, not like he’d left it. Unlike the rest of the house, wrapped up in warm tones of yellow and brown, this room alone was swathed in cool greys and bright neons. The dark wood floor was almost completely hidden under a plush black carpet, the walls were a serene grey not dissimilar to concrete, and the ceiling and furniture deceptively bright whites. Black and white posters were pinned up with silver thumbtacks, salon-style, arranged like a geometric puzzle across the wall where the bed was. Built in shelves covered another, stacked to bursting with books both thin and thick. The desk there with the bright blue chair had Derek’s textbooks stacked neatly on top, next to a bright pink mug full of pens and pencils he’d collected off the street. The wall furthest out, facing the back of the residence had both a window to the tiny alley behind them and a diagonal strip of paint in caution tape yellow, though the floating shelf at it’s bottom edge was so stuffed with more reading that the yellow was scarcely visible. Underneath both the desk and this shelf was the gathered detritus of both student and athlete. Binders and paper and textbooks, along with various trophies and pads and old, worn hockey sticks several sizes too small. There was more than one backpack and satchel, leaning floppily against one another to one side, right next to a set of clear desk drawers, clearly meant to help organize schoolwork, but apparently hijacked for the sole purpose of in-effectually hiding every scrap of paper that had ever made its way into Derek’s hip pockets.

Derek dropped his load of items onto the black bedspread and quickly turned to the door for his attached bathroom to duck inside and twirl a lock of hair until it stopped sitting awkwardly on his forehead.

What if coming upstairs came across as rubbing his parent’s wealth in Dex’s face? What if it read as Derek trying to snub him? What if Dex thought that Derek was trying to hit on him? Did Dex even know that Derek wasn’t one hundred percent into ciswomen?

He brushed it off with a flick of his fingers and plastered a grin on to return to his room. Dex was standing with his hands clasped politely at the small of his back, leaning in close to read the spines of some of Derek’s many ridiculous books.

“Those are all short story collections by modern satirists,” he says.

Dex jerked, “Uh, yeah. Where is your washing machine?”

“Uh, ok,” leftfield much? “Downstairs.”

“Basement?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah, bro. But...why?”

Dex shook his head, “I’m going to teach you how to do laundry before I go.”

“We have a service for that,” Derek admits.

Dex shakes his head, and if Derek squints, he could convince himself that the disbelief was fond. “You are literally paying a cartload of money to an institution to give you a piece of paper to hopefully convince other people that you’re really good at putting words in fun, original orders. You’re not going to have a service forever. Trust me, it isn’t that hard.”

Derek glances at the time, and agrees to let Dex show him the ropes.

 

Learning the basics of laundry went...well. Derek didn’t really understand “color bleed”, or why the hell he couldn’t just wash everything in either warm water (no good for some of his clothes) or cold water (something muttered about Derek being a hockey player, stupid) or why he couldn’t put certain things in with others, but it was, like Dex had promised an hour earlier, mostly painless.

Derek had managed to slam a finger in the dryer door, Dex had laughed his way through his confusion and giddy incredulity. Then Derek had to suffer Dex snapping a quick picture and sharing it on the groupchat where Holster and Ransom quickly set to spamming everyone with memes on minor injuries.

As the pair tromped up the far less ornate stairs in the kitchen that led to the unadorned basement which housed both stacks of dusty boxes and the laundry area, Derek made his offer.

“Hey, bro. You’ve been great today, but it’s getting late--”

“Oh, of course! I’ve got a bitch of a drive, I should get--”

“Dude, no! I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, yeah, I understand you wanting to get on, but...you’ll be getting home at like, midnight. Please--” here, Derek hesitated. Dex was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to bolt, carefully half-turned to take him out of the kitchen and into the foyer and out the door, to the waiting truck. “Stay for the night. Or like, dinner at least. I told myself earlier I’d take you out as a thank you. You know me, if I don’t do it now, I’ll forget.”

That wasn’t quite true, but Dex nodded along. “You would. Yeah, I don’t know, Nurse…”

Derek swallowed the lump tightening his esophagus, “You have anything you need for the night in your car outside. We can go out to eat, bring it in with us after, and you can sleep in the guest room, and head out at ass’o’clock early. I don’t have anyone else with me tonight. C’mon man, please?”

The please, he thinks, it what cinches it. Dex’s eyes flick to the door, then out the window and to the vague shapes of the nearby houses stacked in neat rows with hints of taller buildings beyond them, and back to the door again before the entire flannel-wrapped body seems to be pulled up like metaphorical bootstraps have been attached to his ribs. “Fine, but you’re paying for dinner and no attempts to make me trade you dining hall swipes later.”

Derek claps the other on the shoulder with a wide, pearly grin.

“This is only because you’ll be alone for the night if I don’t.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“Seriously, don’t talk about it, Nurse.”

 

“Dude, it’s like you’ve never eaten raw fish before.”

“Derek Malik Nurse...I fucking hate you. That sushi was gag-inducing, and should be labeled as a hate crime.”

“Bro, seriously, it was great sushi.”

“No, no it wasn’t, and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

“You still ate it all.”

“To be polite!”

“At a restaurant?”

Derek continued to giggle at his D-man partner’s expense, stifling the sound through his broad fist. Just remembering the array of grimacing faces Dex made while chewing his food was hilarious. Credit to him, he never once spat his food out, and didn’t even call salmonella when offered the sashimi plate. Instead, the red-head cringed, and with absurd finesse considering these particular chopsticks were slick, heavy duty plastic, picked up whatever roll or slice was offered to him and chewed unhappily.

Dex harumped.

Derek flashed a smile, the same one that got Mahreen to talk to him during Freshman Seminar last year. “I told you we could have gone for burgers after. I mean, you did  _ try _ the sushi.” he nodded self-satisfactorily, “Mission accomplished: Me. Look at you, trying new things!”

Dex halted them with the slap of a hand on Derek’s shoulder, halfway up the stairs to Derek’s room, “The fuck? That wasn’t the first sushi I’ve ever had.”

The other sophomore blinked. Dex’s hand burned through the fabric of his jacket, bleeding out the chill that had settled in from their fumbling wait on the stoop, from when Derek couldn’t get his mittened fingers to separate out the proper key. “Well, kudos to you for eating something you don’t like. If I’d known that we would have skipped out on it entirely and gotten something we both like.”

Dex gaped. “You are a bit of an asshole, Nurse.”

“Sometimes.” Andover had a reputation of assholes, it rubbed off.

Dex slapped the back of Derek’s head and they continued up.

Getting ready for sleep was almost surreal -- They hadn’t roomed together much on Roadies, but the routine was there, unspoken and clear like they’d practiced it all their lives. As soon as Derek’s door shut behind them, Dex dropped his bag and stripped out of his layers of mismatched lumberjack flannel and pulled on some sweats and a henley. While he did that, Derek turned down the sheets of his meticulously made bed and went to his ensuite to wash his face, comb shea butter into his hair, and brush his teeth. Dex joined him to clean his own teeth and face, and then Derek stripped to his boxers and pointed to the powerstrip his phone was plugged into.

“You can charge you phone there, man.”

Dex arranged his phone and charger with little fanfare, and then they were both seated on the edge of the bed, silent.

Some silences reassure, some sit awkwardly, some are peaceful. This one sat partway between apprehensive and bashful, both tingling and weighing heavily in Derek’s stomach. 

“Dex?”

“Yes, Nurse?”

“Why did you go to the alley and cry yesterday?” God, had it been just  _ yesterday? _ A bare twentyfour hours previous?

Dex recoiled in a full body jerk, ears and face flushing as his shoulders hunched up around them, one knee raising up to block his lower body. “Holy shit, Nurse, fucking really?!” he hissed.

Derek threw up his hands, tucking his leg up underneath his thigh to keep his toes warm. “I’m sorry for showing some concern, Poindexter, you seemed pretty fucked up when I left.”

“Nurse, I haven’t mentioned it at all today, did you think maybe that was a hint?”

“It was definitely a hint --but given that it was my fault I have elected to ignore it!”

Derek was reminded of one of their last arguments, held in a very similar fashion to the one being waged on his bed. They had been in the library, with Chowder directing a pleading look to the ceiling as they whisper-shouted at one another, every word coming out hissed and airy.

“No! I just--!! Urgh!” Dex said, at the peak of clarity. Derek sent him a flat look.

He turned away from Dex and tried to gather his thoughts as the other sputtered next to him. Several thoughts came to mind. Dex walking out of rooms that brought up reincarnation in conversation. The look of Dex’s face in splashes of neon color. Red eyelashes made dewy and dark with tears. “If my poems made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. I believe in reincarnation --I don’t want it to be a lie. I want to hear every single story ever told around a campfire about every single human who ever lived. I’m not sorry about that.”

He took a deep and wet breath. The vision in front of his face swam, but a few swallows and deep, controlled inhales and exhales kept it from overflowing. “I know that not everyone believes. Does reincarnation scare you, Dex? It….It scares me.”

“You just said that you wanted it to be real,” replied Dex, quietly, and Derek was grateful to hear the waver in his voice, too.

“I can be scared by something I think is beautiful. The word is ‘sublime’.  _ Impressing the mind with a sense of grandeur or power, inspiring awe, veneration, etcetera.  _ The idea of humans being more than the flesh we inhabit is...it’s such a big feeling, Dex.”

“Yeah,” Dex agreed.

Derek pushed on, “I’m scared Dex, but more than that --I’m inspired. I want to know everything.”

Dex snorted, “That wouldn’t be as pleasant a situation as you imagine.” 

He curled his legs up, freckles covered in faded navy knit, and said, “Stop with the reincarnation shit. I was just reminded of something, Nurse. Forget ab--” he swallowed hard, the constriction of his freckled throat audible from the meagre distance between them, “don’t worry about it.”

“Reminded of something?”

“Yeah.”

“By my poems?”

“Yeah.”

“....can I ask what?”

“Can we drop it?”

Derek pretends to think it over as he subtly wipes salt out of his eyes, “Nah, we’re having a heart-to-heart.”

“Fuck, didn’t you get the memo that I’m allergic to feelings?”

A laugh blew out from between Derek’s teeth without permission. “Fuck, Poindexter, I think everyone has that memo. Don’t beat around the bush. What were you reminded of?”

Dex chews over his reply for several long minutes during which Derek’s eyes fully dry and he starts to feel the chill over his relatively unclothed body.

“It was a breakup. Think the worst, most over dramatic breakup in soap opera history, and multiply it by cancer.” Dex lets the words sink in, and Derek huffs out more inappropriate laughter even as Dex’s voice goes rough and growling, “It wasn't caused by keeping secrets, but what I couldn't -- _can't_ \-- say...those things  made it worse. The--My--world changed after it, too. But worse, the universe conspires to remind me of it. Like, every single day, and nobody around me notices a damn thing.”

It’s a huge number of words for Dex, given the facts of who he’s conversing with, and that the subject matter isn’t dad-music trivia or computer science thought problems (Or whatever piece of furniture, appliance, or dining hall cutlery Derek broke in the span of a regular week). Derek isn’t surprised that they fizzle out, but Dex leaves off with one last thing to say.

“It’s the love that hurts, Nursey. I want to give it up so much, and I’ve really, really tried...I’m not sure if I  _ can _ .”

 

 Derek rolled back onto campus through the tram from the train station, with one huge suitcase in tow and a new scarf around his neck. His teeth felt like each had their own sweater wooled over pale enamel, and he definitely had three bottles of liquor he wasn’t supposed to know the location of in the bottom of his backpack. The frosty January weather hadn’t gotten as rainy or cold as it could have gotten over break, but Derek could smell the harsh ionization in the air that preceded good, hard freezes. He had, as predicted, been the only one home during the break, though his mothers’ presents had arrived almost a whole week before Christmas, along with a list of people he should greet at the Islamic center on the Prophet’s Birthday.

He had been dutiful in his greetings and hellos, calm and respectful and well-dressed. He had shaken hands with the old grandfathers and helped the older grannies with their loads of baked goods for the potluck, and had bowed and prayed at all the right moments. He passed along his mother’s well wishes, and condolences that she had to be absent, and received well wishes and pinches to the cheek in turn. 

When he returned home through the subway he collapsed into a bed that no longer smelled like a ginger-haired teammate and brought a bottle with him.

The older boys at Andover always said it was worse to be alone in a crowd than just alone, but Derek had never really believed until his first semesters away at Samwell.

Derek hadn’t fallen quite into a total drunken stupor for the final two weeks of break, but that really had more to do with the fact that he didn’t trust himself to bring two bottles of liquor up the stairs without dropping them, and the idea of drinking downstairs was somehow worse than imbibing alone in his room with the door shut.

The group chat had also kept him mostly awake through the three occasions he found himself facedown in his toilet. Though what had kept him lucid and sniggering through bouts of nausea he isn’t quite sure of to look back on the colorful logs on his phone.

Every single piece of clothing in his suitcase was carefully washed and dried, folded up neatly in his bag.

 

He dropped his bag into his dorm, still strung out in colorful drapes of now-dry clothes, and methodically put everything away. He then looked about the empty, drab walls and decided to see who was up for a run to the Half-Price Books near campus. Or the funny little new-age shop next door.

Derek knocked exactly twice before barging into the Haus, “Hey! Anyone home?!”

He was looking into the kitchen, chasing the soft, spicy smell of cinnamon when a series of thuds and a shout took him down with a full-body tackle. “NURSEY!”

Derek went down with a whump and a bang into the door, Bitty’s umbrella stand clattering down with him as he landed, twinges that would be bruises blooming all up and down his side, most notably on his ass and elbow.

“Hey, C, good break?” Derek groaned.

“ _ OhmygoshohmygoshNursey!! _ It’s so good to see you I missed you so much! And Farmer! And Dex!  _ And BITTY!! _ ” Chowder, wrapped in more layers than Bitty at his worst, looked a bit like a fluffy sharks themed marshmallow, all teal and white and sparkling braces.

“Hey, Nursey,” said Bitty quietly, curled up tightly around himself, “We were about to make a Murder run --but I can make you some hot chocolate before we go, if you wait just a minute.”

Derek thumped Chowder on the back, carefully maneuvering his hands to keep them above his hyperactive friend’s waist. The puffy jacket made that harder than it might otherwise be. Derek sort of loved it. Chowder himself latched around Derek’s neck, rubbing his baby-smooth cheeck over Derek’s stubble.

Then his aloe scented skin moved away, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth comically, “Nursey, you need to shave, bro.” Then the goalie rubbed his cheek, reddened from beard burn. “We aren’t to playoffs yet, you know!”

Derek laughed, and shoved him off.

“S’chill, dudes. Bitty, if you can put it in a travel mug then I can just go with ya’ll. Care for another arm for butter? If you’ll run an errand for me first, that is.”

Bitty brightened immediately, and Derek was relieved to see the slackening of tension across his slim shoulders. Homesickness was a battle for anyone, but at least Derek could reach his home in less than a day of travel. The junior homemaker-of-hockey-bros usually drove for three days to come to and leave campus for Georgia. Bitty had been hella stressed from finals, and it was disheartening to realize that the well-deserved winter break hadn’t fully rejuvenated their baker.

“Where to?” Asked Bitty, already heating up milk and pulling out cocoa and a few smaller jars of spice, cinnamon and nutmeg, and something else sweet. He pinched a bit of each into a set of mugs with lids and handles, and soon went about pouring warmed milk over the lot. Then, with gloved hands and a quick check that the doors both front and back were locked (Bitty had Chowder run around and check) and they were on their way.

The warmth from the mug in his hand rivaled the heat bursting up from Derek’s muzzy chest, and invisible defrosting leaving behind puffs of clouds taking ice out of his lungs and sending it skyward to the bright grey-blue sky.

 

The first time Derek runs across Dex in the new semester is just before classes start back up, at practice. Bitty is yawning over the whole it of, and Dex and Chowder are both flanking him to either side, jostling him between their shoulders to keep him awake and shooting concerned glances at each other over the tiny blonde’s head. Dex takes his stall across from Derek and shuffles Bitty along with a gentle push to the back. He goes, bumbling into a few of the others as he passes, Ollie and Wicky flipping his bangs up and blowing in his face to watch him scrunch up his nose and wave them off.

Ransom and Holster ran them through drills, stickhandling, passing, and skating, and Nursey marveled at how each new drill played like a game, where one could “win” for being fastest or most accurate or by getting the most shots past Chowder or Mr. Rogers. There was no prize outside of bragging rights, but anyone who spends sufficient time around collegiate athletes can tell you: that’s enough. Nursey rode the drills hard, pushing against Dex’s space and willing him to go harder and faster for the puck when Ollie and Wicks pushed through. Bitty, by virtue of an ill-timed yawn lost the puck and Dex easily swung around to snag it --he flung it across to connect solidly on Derek’s tape and he skid away across the ice to pot-shot at Chowder. It was blocked beautifully glove-side, and then, with a whistle, practice ended.

Bitty kept yawning down the tunnel to the lockers, and even as Chowder squeezed Derek and Dex in on their side --tough as though that was to do through all of their padding. Derek jerked over with his chin, and Chowder pouted over at his favorite upperclassman, glancing back at Dex and Derek with a question in his eyes.

“Don’t look at us, Chowder --you’re the one who lives with him. Was he up particularly late?”

Chris shrugged, “He stays up later than me all the time --he’s not usually tired like this, but haven’t you seen how bad it’s been getting?”

Derek shook his head while Dex nodded. “It’s not our business,” Dex said.

Chowder turned a horrified look to the other D-man, “I know it isn’t. Does that really matter given that he’s our friend and teammate?”

“Yes, obviously.”

Derek and Chowder frowned disapprovingly, and Dex pointedly did not stare back.

 

“Hey Derek, how was your break? Were you alone on Christmas?”

Derek jumped and dropped his keys, duffle jolting off his shoulder and into the crook of his shoulder. His coffee dropped onto his keys with a dull thunk and splash, the vinyl of the tile underneath his sneaker squeaking.

He twisted to the side and saw Jo, pale fingers covering a delicately pursed mouth. She was dressed too warmly for inside the building, a thick cream colored sweater, leggings, and tall leather boots. Either that or being the unintentional cause of spilled coffee painted her cheeks red most unattractively. It covered her freckles.

“I...Sorry, Der.”

Derek plastered on a smooth grin and re-shouldered his bag, leaning down and picking up the paper cup between ginger fingers and held it out to her. “Can you hold that for a sec?” He held his keys out at arm's length to shake them out, tiny speckles of coffee spattering the floor. Derek opened his door and gestured, “Care to come in?”

Jo stepped over the spill and doodled a quick smiley on his door board before closing it behind her. The stood in the pause after the door clicking for a moment, before she flicked her eyes to his new posters. “So...good Christmas?”

“Pretty nice,” he replied. “Hang on, let me text the main desk so they can send maintenance to clean.” She sauntered over to the bed and sat down as his thumbs tapped over the screen.

“Get anything good?” she asked.

“It was...a little lonely.”

“You didn’t call.”

“How can you ask me to bring down a pretty girl’s holiday?”

She giggled. “I recall telling you pretty clearly before your poetry reading, actually,” she sing-songed.

Derek slid his duffle into his closet and sat next to her, then slid in close, smile feeling more wooden by the moment. “I seem to remember something like that, how did it go again?”

She grinned, and pushed him down, he smirked and peeled up her sweater.

 

_ Celebrity B-Types: What are the Chances that our Favorite celebrities are Actually B-Types? _

_ So far, no celebrities have come forward to claim ownership of previous lives, but this columnist thinks that this is soon to change! Several celebrity camps have been hinting that their celeb is about to be the first to reveal their A/B stats! Let’s look at the hints we have been getting from the camps of our favorite movie and tv stars, we know who's been tested-- _

Derek crossed campus with his nose buried in his phone screen, desperate for information that had faded to a trickle over the break. Derek was  _ embarrassingly  _ invested in this particular line of thinking --he sort of wanted to write a story about it, but the only celebrities he could bring himself to care about deeply were niche-writers and hockey players. He didn’t think Jack would appreciate short stories about his uncle Wayne having a cross-lifetime love-affair with Saeed Jones.

Derek distractedly sipped from his Annie’s cup, doing his best to keep up with Chowder as he carefully cartwheeled through the rain puddles along the main campus, carrying a string bag on his back, flopping about with stale crackers from the dining hall with which the pair were going to go feed to the ducks on the pond.  _ Why _ they had to do this at  _ nine am  _ on a Saturday, he didn’t quite know, but Chowder swore it was the best time. “Dude, do you think that B-types would take what they know and like...become celebrities? Like, drama-comic artists and politicians and movie stars?”

“What?!” Chowder called back to him, from about thirty feet away.

“Nevermind, bro. Wishful thinking.”

Chowder shrugged and smiled back at his friend with closed tan lips and a fetching sparkle in his dark eyes. He waited patiently for Derek to catch up, then lunged.

“TAG! You’re it!”

And Chris sprinted away, splashing through puddles as he went.

_ Traitor! _ Derek thought with a smile, feet thumping the ground in chase. They reached the pond in record time, hands slapping the largest oak at the bank --it was the best tree because there was a bench next to it that was never out of bread-tossing distance from ducks and geese. Breathlessly, the boys laughed, and Derek pulled Chris in close to ruffle his coarse black hair and drag his tongue up his friend’s neck and cheek.

“EW! Gross, Nursey!” Chowder squealed, and shoved Derek away. They collapsed on the bench and looked at the waterfowl carefully huddled around the water and turning hopeful heads in their direction.

Calmly, Chowder pulled the crackers from his bag and smashed them into crumbs to toss.

For several minutes, there was silence save for the honks of the geese in front of them, and the distant sounds of cars and people going about their business.

“Don’t geese migrate for winter?” Derek asked suddenly, quietly to avoid breaking the moment.

“These ones are descended from ones that were released when hunters couldn’t use them as live bait, or something. They never migrated, so they didn’t teach it to their babies.”

“How do you know?”

“My parents both went here, Derek, they told me.”

“And how did they know, bro?”

Chowder shrugged, “Hell if I know.”

Derek laughed, and kicked a foot out to spook a goose getting too close to their feet.

Chowder’s phone buzzed, and he plucked it from his pocket with clumsy, gloved fingers. He tapped in his unlock code with a red chilled nose.

“Oh, it’s Bitty!” he read a moment longer, “Apparently the upperclassmen had brunch at Jerry’s and they want us and Dex to meet them at the Haus?”

Derek felt his phone buzz in his pocket, he pulled his leather glove off with his teeth and glanced at his screen. Bitty’s message winked up at him from his iPhone, along with one more.

_ RedHeadAsshole (now) _

_ Bitty’s calling a frog-meet at the Haus. I can be there in an half-an-hour so get up and get your coffee now, or you’re going to be late. _

“Hey, tinman does have a heart. Do you have a text from Dex, too?”

“Yeah, he says to get you a coffee, because you’re probably still asleep!”

They snorted into their hands, and rubbed their chilly cheeks. Chowder flung the rest of their cracker crumbs into the water as far out as he could, causing a brief frenzy of geese to waddle and paddle through the cold water of the pond.

“Annie’s does sound good, though,” Derek says.

“Nursey!” Chowder laughs, “You still have some from earlier!”

Derek opened his mouth in a wide grin, holding out his empty cup and shaking it to reveal the tell-tale lack of a sloshing sound. Chowder gaped at it, then laughed --a deeply beautiful sound from his belly and bubbling higher into his throat.

“Okay, we’ll stop at Annie’s!”

 

They ended up at the Haus almost a full twenty minutes before Dex, who walked in with a bulging backpack, his ridiculous laptop satchel straight from a mid-nineties middle-aged office worker’s garage sale, and his toolbox.

“What’s broken?” he asks, eyes darting around as though he can suss out damages through walls via symbiotic link with the Haus.

“Not even an hello for our esteemed graduates, Mr. Poindexter?” Bitty asked with a raised brow and motioning to the kitchen table, a round affair with mismatched chairs that had seen more than one better day. Shitty and the perpetually droopy-eyed Jack Zimmermann were there, waving.

“Yeah, sure, hi. What’s broken, because if you need all three of us it’s a big job and we’re burning daylight.”

Shitty snorts and bursts into giggles undignified for a Harvard attendee, “That’s my nineteen-going-on-eighty-three frog right there! But seriously, nothing’s broken we can’t live without. C’mon and give us a hug.”

“No.”

Shitty pouts and wibbled his furry lip, “Ouch man. That hurts.”

Bitty pinches Dex’s shoulder and flaps him over. Dex rolls his eyes, but drops his bags and shuffles over to give Shitty a half-hearted arm around the shoulders. Shitty immediately octopuses around him, screeching something about  _ accepting his love _ and  _ not being able to escape _ , and  _ the plan has begun you beautiful fuckers _ . Derek smirked behind his coffee.

Dex shoves at the mustachioed man with a spewing of vitriol and hissed insults, freeing himself to the guffawing laughter of his captor.

Derek, Dex, and Chowder are then shuffled over to Chowder’s napping couch across the entryway and Jack and Bitty take up seats on the armchair to their side, Jack in the dingy seat, and Bitty perched carefully on the arm. It’s a smooth movement, just like the coordination Derek remembers them having on the ice, a pure, unspoken awareness of the other’s place in their proximity.

_ I move with you silently _

_ orbiting, spiraling _

_ existing separately _

_ but breathing in time _

Derek pulls out a notebook to jot the thought down while Chowder bounces to find a comfortable position and Dex smoothes out his flannels. 

“So, this may seem a bit sudden,” Bitty began, “but I want ya’ll to know it doesn’t change anything, okay? Everything around here will be the same as always!”

“Are Mom and Dad getting a divorce?” Derek joked, “Because that sounds like parents telling their kids they’re getting a divorce.” Chowder snorted, flashing the silver of his braces while Dex groaned into his hand. Bitty and Jack turned a look to one another, then back to Derek.

They were very red --were they sick?

“Bits and I dating,” said Jack.

“Oh, cool,” Derek said, numbly.

“Wow, okay,” Dex said, eyes flicking towards Derek and Chowder.

“ _ You and JACK?! _ ” Chowder shouted, drowning out them both. He sprung up from his side of the couch, practically crouching over his own seat, caught between leaping straight up and lunging forward. His face jumped comically from Bitty to Jack and back again, mouth moving, but only tiny pops out sound escaping, little aborted words that short-circuited somewhere between his voice box and tongue.

A brand of heat seared across Derek’s shoulders, and Dex yanked the goalie back down, keeping his arm across Derek as his fingers dug into Chowder’s bicep.

“Can you  _ be  _ any louder? Yes, Bitty and Jack, they’re going to be great together --can you stop freaking out and trying to decide who needs a shovel talk?” Dex hissed.

Chris’s head swung around, Derek leaned out of the way. “Like you saw this coming, Dex!”

“It was super obvious, Chowder, grow--” Dex froze mid sentence, and closed his mouth. “It makes sense,” Dex said. “The weekend visits out of town, the skyping, the updates on Jack’s life…” he glanced to Jack and Bitty, Derek and Chowder flicking their eyes over, too.

They looked stiff, with their eyes a little too wide.

“I shouldn’t say it was obvious,” Dex said. “You’d have to keep track of a lot of variables to really put it together. Graduation, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack said, snaking one arm around Bitty’s hips, and pulling the smaller man half-into his lap.

Derek felt a strange cold all up and down his body, “It wasn’t obvious to  _ me _ ,” he said, “and I  _ live _ for this poetic soap-opera shit. Damn, Poindexter.”

Chris looked around at everyone, the whites of his eyes visible all the way around his inky irises. Then, with a set to his shoulders that was only a little stiff, grinned to the junior and graduate, “Congratulations. I’m really happy for you. I am! Us and Cait should do a double-date sometime! Uh…” he glanced around quickly, “unless you need us to keep it a super-secret or something?”

“We want to be out to the team, but...maybe not so obvious in front of the tadpoles?” Bitty said.

Chowder gave a thumbs up.

Bitty and Jack smiled at them, then Jack shifted, and kissed the younger blonde on the temple, “I should head upstairs for that nap before heading back to providence, okay?”

“Yes, you should, mister!” Bitty shooed him off and with a bobbing wave stole his way back to the kitchen.

Derek turned to Chowder, “What’s up, bro? You were totally awkward,  _ mad _ lack of chill, C!”

Chowder looked down into his own hands, “I panicked! Bitty’s never had a boyfriend before! I--” he looked desperately to the D-men on the couch with him, “I  _ love _ Bitty. I love  _ Jack _ ! I have no idea why I froze up like that!”

Dex’s arm slid off of Derek’s shoulder, skin-warm flannel gliding over thick cotton, and the D-man rose from his seat. He stepped around Derek and kneeled in front of Chowder. “Hey, hey  _ shhh _ now,” he said. Two enormous, freckled hands, thick and calloused, rose up to cup perfectly smooth cheeks. “ _ Shh _ , I said.”

Dex shook Chowder’s face gently from side to side, causing the goalie to pucker his face and bat at the other’s hands. When Dex refused to let go, he opened his eyes and looked directly at Dex, where liquid gold eyes flashed and sparked at him up close and personal.

Derek’s stomach dropped, and he suddenly felt like he was intruding on something he wasn’t supposed to be privy to, guilt like an itch at the bottom of his spine, which was ridiculous on so many standards that it borders on lunacy.

Dex was soft as he gently bobbed Chowder’s head this way and that, smoothing his cheeks and gently whispering, “Bitty loves you, Jack loves you --you know we  _ all _ love you. Just because they’re together now doesn’t mean they’ll stop loving you, or spending time with you.”

“Bitty has been so tired!” Chowder said. “Was he tired like this before he had to spend time with us  _ and  _ Jack?”

“We’ll help him be not tired, okay? How about I take over some more of the cooking, yeah? And you can do the dishes and fold laundry like you did at home, yeah?”

“But, Dex--!”

“ _ Shhhhhhhh _ , it’s okay. You’ll apologize when Jack wakes up --you do want to apologize, right? Good. Just say you love them and you’re happy for them and that you can’t wait for them to be out so that you can do that double date, hug them, and thank them for their honesty. You can do that, right?”

“But why did I freak out?”

“Because all kids freak out when their parents are getting married, even if they like the new spouse.”

Chowder chuckled, and dabbed at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve. “Bitty doesn’t act like my mom at all!” He blushed the whole way through the lie.

Dex grinned, a blooming sun, all living heat and honeyed sweetness, “They  _ both _ parent you, Chris --Bitty feeds you and tuts after your messes and tucks you in on the couch even though he hates to touch it. Jack gives you guidance on the ice, life advice, and pep-talks when you’re down.”

Chowder tightens his lips, and nods. “I must have made them feel so bad…”

Dex shakes his head, “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay --they’ll forgive you. I forgive you. Nursey, do you forgive him?”

Chowder and Derek both jerk, and Chris looks over.

“Y-yeah, of course I do. I love C.”

“See? We forgive you. Now go wash your face and calm yourself down. I’ll make you some tea and bring it up to your room, yeah?”

“The good tea is--”

“I know where you and Lardo hide the good tea, and  _ yes, I know _ \--no sugar, only honey.”

Chowder nodded, removed Dex’s hands from his face, and tottered away like a new colt, disappearing up the stairs.

Derek watched Dex as the other watched Chowder. The usually tense freckled face with the over-large ears and long, straight nose was smoothed over, at ease. The normally square shoulders slumped and smooth. His eyes --

Dex’s eyes were burning.

_ yellow fire in the night _

_ here I quail before your might _

_ gentle burning of the tinder _

_ slowly melts me down to cinder _

_ lack a breeze to raise you high _

_ changes not my dying sigh _

_ I curl against the mortal coil _

_ and choose to end daily toil _

Derek wanted to sink into them forever.

He glanced again to the stairs, and the fading thumps of Chowder’s footsteps on aged and creaking wood, and tasted sourness on his teeth. Such banked heat in Dex’s eyes, turned towards Chowder, sent a roll through him, tumbling his guts and making the tips of his fingers numb. Such gentle caring for their friend, quiet assurances and tiny smiles, given freely and without reserve when Derek had been steamrolled with acid and salt. Derek wondered idly if Chowder had seen the lights.

Derek gripped his forearms and didn’t think about it.

 

The next game was at home, versus Quinnipiac. The game was tight, but wonderfully energetic, with Derek and Dex getting a grand total of almost twenty minutes of ice time. Derek didn’t want to crow about it, Dex certainly wasn’t, but it was a sick victory for the start of the new semester and the real crunch towards playoffs. Without Jack, Samwell Men’s Hockey was down in overall points in years previous, but Whiskey and Ollie (or was it Wicky?) were doing a bang-up job of helping to close the gap. Derek was doing his best to keep up the momentum, Dex had even complimented a shot he’d sunk in during the second period, high on adrenaline and closing up the Bobcat’s lead. Sure, it was a brief bump of the shoulders and a friendly thump of the helmet, but Derek would take anything.

He didn’t look when Dex, who took his ice time near Chowder at the goal, would playfully scrub his gloves all over Chowder’s helmet and mask during timeouts. It put something awful into his blood and today was a good day --a  _ good game _ .

They came out with a win, huddled around Whiskey who calmly shrugged off the excited cheering and whooping and thudding slaps on the helmet and pads with a graceful aplomb that was entirely too chill for someone his age.  _ No _ , Derek did not think that was ironic  _ in any way. _

As was usual with home game wins, afterwards the Haus party blew up into a full-blown kegster, albeit not as crowded as one thrown when all the students were back on campus. In fact, most of the people present were the student athletes from a wide arrange of sports: Volleyball, Basketball, Track and Field, Tennis, Polo, Swimming and Diving, Gymnastics, and even the Rifle club were in attendance, though Football and Lacrosse were absent, of course. The overall effect was that while the Haus was not as crowded as usual, somehow it was as loud and raucous as the most legendary of epikegsters.

Derek swung his tub juice around, swaying with Bitty to the beat of the music pulsing from Ransom’s speaker setup, which was small, but  _ powerful _ . It was some DJ pop mix that Holster had been addicted to lately, and the mashup was seamless, even if Derek thought ever song in it was overplayed to death. He made his opinion known to Bitty, sipping from his own solo cup, and was answered with an imperious eyebrow raise.

“H-urp-hipster,” he accused, across a soft burp.

“Lush,” Derek retorted back, with a winning smile.

Bitty grinned back, popping his ass to the beat and flicking his ass to hipcheck the taller boy. His drink sloshed some, but enough had been consumed not to spill. Derek took the hit playfully, and bumped back just gently enough that Bitty didn’t fall over in his tipsy state.

“You’re looking good, considering  _ you-know-who  _ isn’t here,” Derek said, eyes sliding up and down Bitty’s form. Well-fit jeans hugged his hips, and were paired with a clean Falconer’s jersey --women’s size medium. Derek waggled his brows.

Bitty slapped at the sophomore, “Hush, you!” then, conspiratorially, “Jack and I are skyping tonight.” Derek smiled back, wide and charming.

He raised his cup, “Good luck, Bro.” Bitty nodded sagely, and melted further into the cleared living area to tear up others’ self-confidence in twerking.

Derek stumbled off in search of Chowder. He owed that boy a drink. First because he’d earned it, a monster and a half between the pipes, and then  _ again _ because that sour bug in his stomach needed drowning. Just because Dex  _ smiled  _ at Chow didn’t mean that he liked him  _ more  _  than he liked Derek.

_ No, he just  _ loved _ him. _

Derek bit the inside of his cheek, just enough to sting.

_ why not me? _

_ why not me? _

_ what did I do? _

_ How do I change? _

_ WHAT DID I DO? _

Derek dismissed the phrase --too needy to be a beginning, middle,  _ or _ end and didn’t think about it further, banishing it to the back of his head, where it would likely linger until he could really scribble out some nonsense into his compositions book.

He drifted through the yard, cheering on the miniature bonfire Ransom and March had set up in the barbeque pit, and some track guy was blowing tiny gouts of flame with a lighter and some liquid in a flask. One of the very smashed swim girls was trying to find marshmallows that didn’t exist, by searching around her rear, which was parked on the cold ground where one friend kept pushing her from her own lawnchair. This was probably more friendly than it seemed, as the swim girl was definitely tilting far too much for someone who was already sitting. Derek was about to offer some water when Ollie came by with two bottles and a quiet “drink up!”

Ground girl chugged it, while her friend squawked. Track guy blew another fireball to another round of cheers, and Derek wobbled back into the Haus with Wicky’s hand on his elbow.

“Where’s your patrol, bud?”

“Hey, Wicks. We didn’t have one tonight. I don’t think Ransom and Holster were planning on having this turn into a rager.”

“No kidding,” Ollie said, pulling his snapback from his head and running fingers through his dark hair. “How many swim kids have we run water to tonight, Wicks?”

“Too many, Ollie.” The pair fistbump, and explode it out. They fish out new beers for themselves and sit Derek down at the table. Like clockwork, they fetch another bottle of water from behind some butter and pass it over to Derek, who sips politely and lets them direct the conversation.

“I’m hoping for Vin Diesel.”

“Holy shit, you have to be kidding. He would be a bettor actor if that were the case, Bro. I want Hilary Knight to be a B-type and I want her to kick  _ all of the ass _ with it.”

“You and fuckin’ Hilary Knight.”

“You and fuckin’ Vin Diesel. And Dwayne Johnson. And John Cena. And wrestlers turned actors in general.”

They snickered at their own expense, and turned to Derek, “Hey bro, B-type celebrities --who do you want?”

_ Oh Derek could get behind this conversation. _

“Do you have half an hour?” he replied.

The epic shit-fest that followed was half meta conversation, half chirping through beers, and every bit as hilarious as three buzzed hockey bros having a conversation about celebrities could be. Derek was high and floaty for the first time in a week without guilt weighing him down or the help of his diminishing stash.

“Seriously? Can you imagine Vin Diesel having been a mom? Like, just...a shaved bald lady with burly arms punching out other moms in the grocery aisle for like, stealing the perfect avocado or something?!” All three boys took a moment, and fell over the table in hysterics.

“My way, no highway option!” growled Ollie, though the effect was ruined as he kept restarted every time he giggled through a word.

When they calmed, Wicky rose from his chair and Ollie followed suit. They filled their arms with water, and Ollie threw a wink in Derek’s direction. “Awesome talk, bro. Waterboys out!”

Derek waved them off, somehow much less tipsey than when they’d run across one another. He leaves the kitchen, and enters the living area, intent on making a space at the couch to people watch. Maybe come up with a few lines of poetry to kick off the semester while he could eek off the good vibes of the crowd. Dancing had continued, but it seemed more concentrated to one side, while a mixed group of hockey and rifle club members had circled up at his target and were hooting almost loud enough to drown out the singing of the dancers.

Derek got closer to see an empty beer bottle at their center, slowly spinning to a stop.

“Holy shit! Middle school shenanigans here we go! Are we _ actually playing spin-the-bottle?! _ ”

“You know it, my chillest bro!” Holster shouted. It was the closest to an inside voice he had when a party was on. Holster was seated on the floor, Bitty perched on his shoulders and beaming out at the gathered party goers. “All in, no re-spins or cheek-copouts allowed! You want in?!”

“Bro,” Derek said, “You know it. Move over.” He squeezed between two rifle clubbers and shimmied in. He glanced around the circle, admiring the beautiful figures around it. Holster whooped, and Derek laughed as the bottle spun again. The girl who’d spun it happily leaned over to kiss the boy it had landed on --Tango, who’s shocked stare made the suggestion that he hadn’t quite expected that particular outcome. Derek slapped him on the shoulder when she leaned away again, the freshman dazedly blinking out at them.

“Bro, she barely grazed you, you’re fine!” Holster bellowed, nearly dislodging Bitty.

Tango spun, and the group hollered when it spun to a stop right on Derek. Tango, still wide-eyed blurted, “You good, Nursey?”

Derek waved him over, “Yes, Tangredi, I’m chill. Hurry up so I can get some lovin’ from these  _ fine as hell _ riflemen!” Tango leaned in, and Derek met him halfway in a too-quick bump.

“Ow,” Tango said.

“Oh, bro. You need to watch you nose. Just a second, here,” Derek passed of his cup to Bitty, “hold my beer!”

Tango, looking up at the cup pass missed it when Derek’s hands reached over to cup his face. “You have to watch your nose, bro. Everybody has this problem, but it’s okay, baby bird. I’ll feed you.”

“Huh-mmmph!”

Derek gave Tango a real kiss. Girls around the circle began to shriek, and Derek carefully twisted Tango’s head a round to avoid smashing their noses. “See,” he whispered, hot breath panting across the younger’s face, “first, avoid noses.” He leaned in again, Tango falling in obediently as Derek placed tiny, sucking kisses all over his lips, “second, don’t go too deep, too fast.” Then, to an absolutely deafening pounding of sound, Derek pulled Tango’s hands to his hips, smearing one last kiss across the tadpole’s deeply rouged cheeks, “last, always know where to put your hands. Got it, Tango?”

“Uh---yes. Right. Um. Got it.”

“No more questions?”

“No?”

Tango’s reply was about an octave too high, and this time Bitty did tumble off of Holster, who looked almost as red as the freshman, except his flush was from booze and laughing too hard.

“GET IT, NURSEY! YOU GIVE THOSE LIFE LESSONS LIKE A CHAMPION!”

Derek bowed to the clapping group and waggled his brows and the bottle at them.

The game continued, pulling in more partygoers, and setting off a few more games in the corners of the living room. Derek was quite happy to kiss the anonymous masses, being brought more water than beer by Ollie and Wicky, and watching his teammates kiss the assorted group of athletes at their disposal.

“Oh, wow!” Said an all too perky voice behind him.

“Chris, it’s just a game of Spin the Bottle.”

“Yeah, but Cait, I’ve never played before --Not that I want to! You’re amazing! And it’s juvenile! And super middle-school!”

Caitlin takes pity on her boyfriend and smothers his face with one of her hands, “I got it, babe. We can still watch, though.”

“The  _ hell _ ?” Dex says from her other side, glaring into the circle with a look upon his face like the overall scene has left a toe jam in his toothbrush. Farmer, goddess among women, waves him off like that look alone hasn’t withered Derek down to dust.

“It’s a party game, Poindexter, heard of those?”

“I get that Farmer, it’s that  _ this particular one _ is being played here.  _ Now _ . In  _ 2015 _ .”

“Ooohhh, Dex! You should play!”

Derek, for a moment, lost himself to the horror of watching Dex kiss other people. The rifle girls uniformly had fairly pretty round faces, and it was all too easy for Derek to imagine the dimmed lights curling over fire red hair as one pale, freckled face leaned in to drag thin lips over plush pink cheeks and thick feminine lips --just a sliver of tongue visible as the game dragged itself to it’s inevitable, dirty end. A split-second brain-induced picture show gave Derek several different glimpses of it, really, with every girl in the circle; each a uniquely titillating diorama of sexual avarice where Dex’s long fingers found purchase on soft bodies and pulled them in closer than Derek has ever been allowed. When his brain ran out of ideas with the girls, it started in on the boys--

and froze.

Derek rejoined the group in reality, with Holster’s laughing, “No cop-out kisses, Chow! This is  _ not _ the game for Sexxy Dexxy!”

“Huh?” said Chowder.

“What?” said Dex.

A practiced smirk fit itself over Derek’s stubble-scratched jaw and it felt as thin as paper. “He wouldn’t be allowed to dodge out of kissing boys, C.”  _ One plus one equals kumquats are delicious _ \-- the image would not compute even in Derek’s own head.

“Kinda hard to imagine Dex making it with a guy,” Holster said shaking his head with a smile. Bitty fluttered his hands, adorably flushed cheeks glowing and making some noises that were a little like overloud shushing.

“It’s okay, Dex! I mean, when you were on your freshman tour you weren’t exactly expecting, well,” Bitty rolls his shoulders, which sends his entire drunken body into a sinuous curve, “ _ me _ . So we were pretty careful at first for me not to be too in your face. But since you’ve joined the team you’ve been super about the whole, uh, ‘gay thing’, especially with --uh-- _ you-know-what _ .” He slurred the last few words in a stage whisper and a very unsubtle, highly unstable, wink.

“Excuse me?” Dex said, with the flattest voice in his  _ I’m disappointed in you _ arsenal. Derek could feel his intestines wither with the chill from his words.

“Nah, nah,” Holster said, puffing up, and Derek realized with a clarity he had with his own paper thin expressions that Holster was not nearly so buzzed as he seemed. Holster shifted, and put himself just a little bit closer to Bitty --putting him just barely between Dex and the smaller blonde. “You’re just not the type to kiss other guys, bro. It’s 100% fair to watch and not play. Or  _ not _ watch  _ and _ not play!” Holster had nearly every eye in the room on him, an expert and seizing attention.

“Holster,  **_who the fuck do you think I am?_ ** ” Dex asked.

It was like a piledriver to Holster’s carefully constructed air of nonchalance. Dex’s clear tenor cut through the miscellaneous noises of people gathered around good drama as a deep bells cut through the sounds of church towers and halls. The surrounding voices fell quiet, cups stopped tapping, dancers stopped moving, and every eye swung around to the game circle, every eye startlingly sober. Even breathing took on a tone of expectant waiting.

Holster’s breath seized, and he spoke softly, but rushed, like the words were being blown from his mouth too fast to order past their conception. “You’re a good guy, Dex-- I don’t want you to not have fun because you’re doing something you’re not comfortable with.”

Holster sucked in another breath.

And the stiff frozen breath of the party blew out and all the ambient noise came back, eyes turned away, and Derek found he was gasping. He didn’t think he’d just had a panic attack, but Derek could feel the burning thump on the side of his neck just below his jaw, and the hard thud of his heart under his ribs, so maybe he had. Dex had never sounded angry like that before, Derek considered himself quite the expert so he would know.

Derek looked up at him now, and saw Dex, one imperious eyebrow raised, leaning in. He put two furnace-hot hands on Derek’s shoulders, and then his chest was hovering just over Derek’s newsboy cap. Cotton t-shirt wafting the smell of teenage sweat, cheap beer, and something salty like the ocean down and onto him like rank ambrosia. Propped up on Derek, Dex spoke.

“Holster -- I am Pan, with a distinct preference for getting  _ dicked _ . Men are fucking hot, pegging is the greatest thing in sex since the invention of condoms and dental dams, and frankly, the bigger the cock, the better as far as I’m concerned.”

Derek felt his brain short circuit. It was a sharp pain inside his ear followed by a vague ringing sensation that was only half-sound. It was somewhere between the words  _ preference for getting dicked _ and  _ the bigger the cock, the better. _

“--Uh--” Holster was very eloquent in expressing what was probably a similar feeling, like gravity had reversed only nothing was moving. Through a fog, Derek noticed both Holster and Bitty were open-mouthed in shock. There was a string of thought that passed wherein Derek remembered there were a few other of his teammates sitting in or near the circle that probably also just heard those words leave Dex’s mouth, but it wasn’t quite loud enough over the hiccuping repeat of -- _ getting dicked--getting dicked-- _ **_getting dicked_ ** _ \-- _ that was flashing over his brain like an exposed livewire. 

Derek was still hearing the echo of it when Holster jolted to rights.

“BRO! Holy shit, bro --I’m so sorry! Rans and I have been _remiss in our duties_ to make sure that all are frogs are _one hundy and eleven_ _percent_ in the know that we will one hundy and _fifty_ percent behind them and that I basically just _assumed--_ ”

“Assuming makes an ass out of  _ u _ and  _ me _ .” Dex says, haughty dignity in every pissed-off line of muscle in his hands that Derek can see from the corner of his eyes.

“You are  _ so right, bro. _ Rans and I will re-evaluate your dating options for Spring C, and--”

“ _ Fuck no _ ,” Dex interrupts, when Holster actually pauses to let him talk, Dex cautiously continues, “I’m not Asexual, or Aromantic or anything like that, Holster, but I am an asshole. I like being a grumpy dick--it’s a wonderful diet of salt, and vinegar, and spite. If you set me up, I swear that  _ I will make you regret it _ . Understand?”

Holster nodded emphatically. It bobs in Derek’s slowly stabling vision as the sophomore stops feeling quite like the floor has dissolved from under him.

“Oh, oh,  _ ohmygoshDexIneedtomakeyouacake!!! _ ” Bitty gasps.

Holster flattened a huge hand over Bitty and squashed the smaller back into his own knees. “No, but really, I  _ have _ to ask…”

Holster’s blue eyes, made larger by his thick lenses and a frighteningly pale shade of blue, flick to meet Derek’s eyes. A memory flashes by, quick as a thought.

_ “Dude,” said Ransom, “We didn’t realize you felt like that about him. I mean...do you feel that way about him?” _

_ “Tough luck, brother.” _

“Tell me, man: what’s your type of dude to get your mack on with?” Holster waggled his brows, grin wide, and his eyes flick to Derek’s.

“You’re not setting me up, I said.”

“Personal curiosity, now that our game of spin-the-bottle is well and truly over. I’m thinking it’s time for another fan favorite -- _ Truth or Dare _ , Dex?”

The circle of college students hoot and Dex shifts his weight across Derek’s shoulders. Derek puts one arm down to balance himself, water sloshing out of his cup.

Dex pauses, and the taste of the air shifts, burning ozone and electricity.

“ _ Dare _ , Hols,” and the words come out of Dex’s mouth with a twisting sound around a smirk.

Broad shoulders lean forward, “ _ I dare you to kiss the hottest person in this room. _ ”

The hands on Derek’s shoulders lifted --he tilted dangerously without the support. A jean-clad hip passed his ear, followed by the roundness of a beautiful rump whose top was brushed with cotton, playing peek-a-boo with a strip of flesh the fabric that fell just short of full coverage. Those hips swayed slowly side to side as the freckled figure stalked forward, across the circle of chattering students, body dropping sinuously into a crawl. Dropping to hands and knees wasn’t supposed to be  _ graceful _ , how did Dex make that  _ graceful _ ?

Dex crawled away from Derek, and right into Holster’s lap.

Holster was a little wide-eyed, breath going heavy at the heavy dip and sway of Dex’s hips, shoulders, and back, a seduction without words and utterly transfixing. Dex put both hands around Holster’s neck, still bobbing his hips to a beat unheard.

Derek couldn’t picture it before, Dex kissing a man, but here in reality it was impossible not to watch. Dex, pale and burning, rolled his body across the bigger form he was on top of, locking lips and twisting his spine impossibly to make it as much a show as an action. Holster’s huge hands grabbed, tried to hold the curve of ass, the bend of spine and was thwarted like open palms attempting to hold water. Dex flowed through.

Dex pulled Holster’s head where he wanted, this way and that, to text new angles and depths, his tongue slipping between the Senior’s lips and drawing Holster’s own to come explore. Holster’s eyes were pinched shut, Dex’s sliding between shut and half-lidded. Holster made a sound like all the air and been punched from his guts. Several long, deep kisses were traded for shallower pecks and bitten lips, and then lighter still, a simple press of mouth to mouth as Dex ground down hard onto Holster’s lap, the bigger gripping desperately onto Dex’s thighs, fingers flexing in time to the roll of Dex’s hips.

“Good?” asked Dex, voice even, but breathy. It was perfectly post-coital debauchery in sound.

Holster’s eyes blinked open and he whimpered, “ _ Holy shit. _ ” Derek, gone a little dizzy himself, understood completely.

Sounds from around them filtered back in, but Derek didn’t really care to filter them all into sense. Most of it was just incoherent screams of encouragement anyway. Dex waved the vultures off, rose to his feet with more aplomb than anyone who had spent the last several minutes giving an impromptu sex show had the right to, and offered a hand to help Holster up off the floor. Holster took it and heroically only wobbled a  _ little _ when he was pulled up.

Derek noticed Bitty gaping at their vacated spot, legs pulled up to his chest. His eyes were glossed over, and his mouth was open in a soft, little ‘o’.

“Have fun with your game, kids,” Dex said, pulling Holster into the kitchen. The team co-captain was staring at the freckled hand entwined with his disbelievingly.

A rifle girl shouted after them, “Get it, ginger! Do it for all of us!” and laughter rolled around the circle, track, swim, rifle teams all oblivious to the tectonic shift that had just occurred on the hockey team.

“So,” said Cait, finding room by Derek’s right ear, “I did not expect that.”

“I’m sorry, Nursey,” said Chowder into his other ear. “I’m really sorry. Want to go up to my room?”

_ Please. _

Derek nodded, he pinned his cheeks up in a grin and raised his cup of water to the circle. They whooped and raised theirs back, a new game starting. “Don’t destroy our Haus!” he hollered at them, and let Chris pull him up. Lardo appeared at their side moments later.

All four ducked the caution tape barring the upstairs and stole up and away from the throbbing of bodies and clatter of voices, Chowder barely fumbling his keys when putting them to the lock. They entered the room from the dark upper landing, twisting the lock and flicking on the lightswitch. It was reentering reality after the bad trip that was the dimly lit party downstairs.

“So that just happened,” Lardo said, “I...Wow.”

Caitlin wrapped skinny, muscular arms around Derek’s shoulders. “You look sick. Babe, get Derek some water from the bathroom?” Chowder quickly complied, and Derek had a sharks mug pressed into his hand. His solo cup from downstairs was gone.

“Wow,” Derek said. “I...did not expect that to hurt.”

He takes a deep breath, “I mean, I shouldn’t feel hurt, right?”

“The guy you like just made out with someone who is basically your polar opposite in every respect. You have every right to be hurt,” Chowder stated, bluntly. Lardo smacked him on the shoulder.

“I don’t  _ like _ -like him, though.”

Lardo leaned in, “You just said  _ like _ -like. Yes, you do. Don’t worry, we understand.”

They all sat in silence for a good minute, Chowder and Caitlin flanking Derek on the bed and Lardo with her arms crossed over the back of the desk chair and slowly swiveling back and forth on the tips of her toes.

“It was pretty fucking hot, though,” Chris said at last. “Dex pulled that out of nowhere. Bro has some serious seduction game.”

“YES.”

“Oh god, yeah.”

“Fuck me, yes.”

With that, a little bit of the otherworldliness of it blew over --it didn’t choke and encompass all of Derek’s working brain. The litany of Dex voice repeating filthy words in Derek’s hindbrain could be overlooked in the utter normalcy of talking shit about cute boys with your friends. Every time. Lardo brought up Shitty’s terrible attempts at romance, but she smiled and rolled her eyes indulgently with every telling. Caitlin and Chowder both regaled the group about their worst dates with other people, and mishaps when theirs went awry. The story of the time they were rained out of a picnic would never get old, Derek half-convinced to write it down for hockey-team history. Derek put in his own two cents on terrible dates when attending private boarding school.

The party echoed on downstairs until early morning, despite the hour most of the attendees were going to be waking for practice or games tomorrow. Lardo eventually departed through the bathroom to her own room, giving a sleepy goodnight to the remaining trio on the bed. Chowder lent loose sweats to both Derek and Caitlin, and they all changed facing different walls, bashfully. Less shyly, they crawled into Chowder’s tiny bed, Caitlin against the wall, Chris toasting in the middle, and Derek on the outside, hogging the ducky blanket Lardo had tossed their way when it became apparent neither D-man nor volleyball player were making it to their dorms that night.

Derek drifted.

 

Derek opened his eyes to darkness. Orange light spilled through the blinds, and the blankets around him were warm with heat blowing off the two soft bodies next to him. The Haus was quiet, creaking as it settled and the wind outside buffeted against aged walls. The hush of rain against the windows was soothing. Something about the cross of light across the wall was familiar --an odd tingle in Derek’s slowly waking brain, but he brushed it away.

_ I’m still comfortable, I still have blankets, I can’t really stretch my legs, but Chow is there… _ Derek ticked off reasons for being awake one by one. He didn’t feel the pressure of a full bladder, and his stomach wasn’t feeling tight and hungry--

a dull thump echoed from beyond the door. A muffled voice.

\-- _ someone was awake? _

Derek snuggled deeper into Chowder’s shoulder, inhaling deeply of sleep-warm, golden skin, and tried to ignore the odd thump of whoever it was.

Another thump, and a cut-off yelp. Much louder this time.

Derek blearily picked up his head, and looked at the door. There was a sliver of light, faint through the crack at the bottom of the door.

He got up.

As quietly as he could, Derek padded to the door, socks muffling the thump of his feet, and blanket draped across his shoulders. He reached the door, and hesitated.

Another pained moan from what had to be the bathroom got him to turn the knob.

Dex had gone through the whole Haus with WD-40 in a fit of pique just before the game, so the latch clicked softly, but otherwise the door opened with only the soft whoosh of air. Any sound was soft enough to be absorbed by the sound of rain, a little louder in the landing. Sure enough, the door to the bathroom was half-open, light pouring out. Most of the wide triangle of light covered Lardo’s door, and stretched back towards the attic stairs. Derek stepped around it and told himself it was to avoid hurting his eyes, but that didn’t explain his careful steps.

He listened carefully to the noises now, each whimper and bitten off curse. He’d stepped out because they’d sounded pained, but they weren’t quite there anymore. It also sounded like someone was gagging? The think gulps and muffled coughs were quieter, though. The noise was just out of rhythm with the other noises. Did one of their overnight partiers get sick? Dry heaving was painful. Or maybe Ransom or Holster, considering they were upstairs?

The next whimper was followed with a groan that spiralled into a deep, helpless moan and Derek’s sleepy brain cottoned on to what his eyes couldn’t quite see yet.

Helpless to the momentum of his feet, Derek shuffled right up to the edge of the light, and the door  _ \--oh shit why was the door open?--  _ there were two people in the upstairs bathroom. The most immediate to catch Derek’s sudden, electro-shock attention was Holster. He was leaned against the wall next to the pedestal sink, on the rim of which one of his oversized hands trembled in a white-knuckled death grip. The terrible (hilarious) photograph Jack had taken of Shitty being chased by the ducks on the pond hovered over his head instead of beside it, braced as he was so low against the wall, thick thighs shivering with effort, legs…

legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate broad shoulders between them. Broad shoulders topped with Dex’s distinctive orange hair, neck kissed with a familiar dusting of spots.

Dex had Holster’s cock halfway down his throat, moaning as it slid steadily back, followed by that little gulping sound.

Derek’s hand covered his mouth.

Not that he could have made a sound if he tried

From his vantage point, he couldn’t quite see every detail, but his imagination more than made up for it.

Holster whimpered, Dex bobbing faster, his freckled grip on the blonde’s hips guiding the senior into his mouth. “ _ Holy shit _ ,” he whispered, fist raising to his mouth. The filthy slurping popped and Holster’s dick rose like a behemoth over Dex’s cotton-covered shoulder. Dex himself ducked in close to suck at the base and then again further down. From Holster’s full body jerk and the tilt of Dex’s neck, the other D-man just sucked one of Holster’s balls into his mouth. The sensation was a familiar one to Nursey, the half-ghost of memory a cruel tease.

His eyes tore away from Dex’s tilting head, from the working of his jaw, and found his eyes stuck on Holster’s cock, the base fisted by Dex’s fingers, barely able to circle the whole of the girth. The rest rose over his fist, angry red and slick with the thicker spit from the back of Dex’s throat. The whole of it blushed furiously, the head nearly purple and twitching in time with Holster’s shaking knees. Dex jacked it, once, twice, three times, twisting his wrist over the head, and Holster shivered through a gasp, oozing precum onto Dex’s wrist.

Dex groaned, and Holster’s deep baritone moaned and broke into a higher-pitched wine, “Oh--oh  _ fuck _ !”

Dex turned up at the desperate whisper, “Fuck my mouth, Hols.”

Holster looks down in ragged disbelief, “ _ What?! _ ”

“ _ Fuck. My. Mouth.  _ I want every beautiful inch of this massive cock down my throat, understand?”

“Oh holy  _ god _ ,” Holster pleaded, “You’ll really choke! You’ll  _ die _ ! Nobody has ever --nobody  _ can-- _ !!”

“You let me be the judge of that, Hols.”

Dex pecked a chaste kiss to the crease where Holster’s thigh joined his crotch, and reeled back. He turned his face up --his eyes would be flashing every shade of gold. He would be looking at Holster with eyes made of Heaven’s fire --and sunk down onto Holster’s cock. And down. And  _ down _ . Until his nose was buried into short-trimmed pale-yellow hairs and Holster was gasping obscenities at high speed with no breath left to give them any vigor.

Dex moaned loud enough to drown out the hiss of rain, and after a moment indulging himself with lipping around the root of Holster’s meat, slid back again until popped all the way off and Hoster cried out, utterly wrecked.

“See?”

Dex took Holster to the root and back several more times, watching the other intensely. With each swallow, Holster lost more and more of his thin composure until he broke under the pressure. “Please!  _ Please _ , Dex, let me come! Please!  _ Please _ ! Fuck!  _ Please _ !”

Dex’s hands reached up, and found Holster’s.

Holster’s hands were dragged from their grasping places on the sink and on his stomach, and pulled into Dex’s hair.

“ _ Oh fuck, _ ” Holster whispered.

Dex guided the hands through one swallow, through a second. He looked up and gave an encouraging moan, a tiny nod. Dex pulled his own hands away, wrapping his arms around Holster’s thighs, bracing himself.

Carefully, Holster watched himself guide Dex’s head down, transfixed. Dex was looking back at him, moaning wantonly through the push. Holster hardly seemed to breathe, as he pulled Dex off again.

Down again. Up. Down again. Up.

Dex strained, and Holster obediently raised the pace. A fraction. Dex flicked him, a fraction more. Dex’s pleased grunts and groans turned frustrated.

“ _ Please _ ,” Holster said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dex slapped Holster’s ass with a crack that shattered the illusion of silence, and Holster jerked forward with a yelp, jamming his hips into Dex’s face, who moaned happily, shoulders going slack and relaxed.

“...You...you like it?”

Dex moaned, and nodded with a mouthful of cock, then slapped Holster’s ass again. Getting the idea, Holster began to fuck Dex’s throat in earnest, pumping him steadily up and down. When he was being too gentle, or maybe just too slow, Dex would pinch the abs above his head viciously. Tiny red marks began to pepper Holster’s lower abdomen. When Holster had returned himself to a mess of  _ ‘please’s _ and  _ ‘fuck’s _ , pistoning his spit-shiny dick in and out of Dex at a quick pace, one pale, freckle dusted hand freed itself from Holster’s leg and reached up, gliding along tight, sweat glistening abs and finding purchase on a single rosy nipple hidden in Holster’s chest-deep flush.

The hand stroked.

“Ah!  _ Ah! _ Oh my god, Dex, I’m close! I’m so fucking close! You have to--AH!”

The cruel fingers  _ twisted _ .

Holster’s back bowed out, clutching Dex by the face and  _ smashing _ his hips forwards. His last few thrusts seemed absent of all control, yanking Dex in and yowling a sob, rolling into Dex’s face and staying there several seconds before pulling half-way back and doing it again. He curled over Dex’s head when he was done, clutching him into his crotch and gasping for air in great, trembling heaves. He let go reluctantly, prying his own fingers away like the action was physically painful.

Dex pulled off his softening dick with a tiny, rough cough, and Holster sank to the floor with his boxers hanging off one ankle.

Dex didn’t wait, and crawled right up into Holster’s lap, grinding down with a relieved whine even as the other jumped with overstimulation and sensitivity. Dex corrected quickly, humping forwards into Holster’s jittering stomach, rather than down into his lap. Derek’s partner didn’t even have his boxers off, just rubbed off against Holster, writhing and whimpering into the taller’s neck. Their captain wrapped his trunk-like arms around Dex, and began to rock back.

Dex came silently shortly after, clutching onto Holster and shuttering.

Thunder rolled outside, and Derek returned to bed with the echos of their heavy panting and quiet chuckles revolving around his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For those who chose to skip the explicit scene at the end:** the only important information is that Derek was witness to a midnight tryst between Holster and Dex.
> 
> So sorry for the delay in posting, as it turns out my laptop DOES NOT like the Ao3 website, though I am hopeful that it is only the browser I'm using. Please have a MASSIVE 35 PAGE CHAPTER as my apology! I literally finished writing it at three am last night, and only finished my pathetic attempts at editing as I type these notes.
> 
> **Comments and kudos feed hungry authors!** Also feel free to drop me a line at my tumblr (catc10) I would love to hear a few of the theories that you guys say you have for this fic!


	7. All the Pieces Move into Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack, watery eyes made hollow and thin by the strong fluorescent light overhead, looked up abruptly. He was dressed more casually than when Derek had last seen him a few weeks prior, still in his game-day suit after a nerve-wracking drive through sleeting rain to the Haus’ door. Today he was wrapped up similarly to his tiny boyfriend, in as many soft layers as would fit across his muscular frame. His stubble was long, like he hadn’t bothered to shave in the last few days, though, from the shocked stare Derek was getting, it was probably closer to ‘not thinking about it’ than ‘not caring about it.’ Their captain has always been known for his early nights and even earlier mornings, but the bruises under his eyes made their usually calm droop look catatonic.

Derek was pretty sure Mahreen was sick of hearing about it before the third week of classes had wound up. Hell, she was probably sick of hearing about it before the second, but when the third week was most of the way through, Derek had started to realise how far past her willingness to coddle him he’d pushed her.

“No.”

“But, Mahreen!”

“ _No.”_ She was not pretending to hold out, evident in the sharp cross of her arms and the twitch of her burgundy lips downward. “No sherbert, no icees, no cake, _no_. I will not indulge your sulking anymore. You saw him fucking your team captain--”

“Technically he was giving him oral.”

“--which still counts for all scientific purposes _and VD_!”

Derek halted, halfway down the library steps, wobbling as the mass of students leaving for their afternoon classes pushed past him. “Oh my god, _Holster wasn’t wearing a condom_ ,” he moaned, “Oh fuck --I think--!”

“I don’t want to know anything more about what you saw, D!”

“But, Mahreen!”

With a frustrated scream, Mahreen yanked Derek down the remaining steps and locked his arm around hers. “ _Moving on_ ,” she said, “Jo says you and she hung out some before most of the campus got back.”

Derek cracked his neck, frowning, “Yeah, she’s chill. We’ve had coffee.”

Mahreen nodded her head, creme colored scarf bobbing along at Derek’s shoulder, “and how did that go?”

Derek shrugged, “She’s chill. We have fun.”

“Not going anywhere?” Mahreen’s voice was perfectly ordered, her face not twitching from her forward gaze.

“Problem?”

“Derek, _mere laal_ , she really likes you.” Derek sighed, warm breath puffing up in cheery clouds.

“We’re having fun.”

Mahreen graciously dropped the subject in favor of their shared Astronomy class general credit, “So, want to help me with our Astronomy homework?” Derek groaned. “Yes, yes, blame me for talking us into Astronomy, I didn’t realize there would be so much math. I’m _great_ at math.”

“There is a reason we’re both in Liberal Arts, Mahreen.”

“...Shut up, Derek. I already told you I owe you every coffee after class we get. I own up.”

“I will let you out of that if you find us a tutor, is all I’m saying. I will even go fifty-fifty if they want to get paid.”

“There are free ones at the student center.”

“But I want a hot one to help me get over--”

Mahreen laughed, bright and clear, “Wow, you almost lasted a whole conversation this time. Maybe we’ll wean you yet! Don’t worry, baby bird, I’ll feed you!”

 

Derek rolled into the Haus after his late communications lecture, a once-a-week class that droned on boringly from five to eight about how people interacted with one another. Derek wasn’t that worried about it. He was amazing at how to phrase things, English major and all. Still, three hours at a chunk was exhausting, and by then he was several hours past his last coffee pit stop, and early morning practice usually meant that by the time class was over he’d been working for a straight thirteen hours.

Derek thumped his back against the chilly front door, tilted his head back, and whooshed breath from between his lips.

“Bitty!” he called, “please tell me you kept a plate from dinner for me! The dining halls are all closed!”

The kitchen rattled some to his left, a small scrape of chair legs against cheap linoleum, voices that had been softly murmuring are noticed by their swift ceasing. “Derek?” Bitty swings into the entry in worn brown corduroys and a blue Falconers sweatshirt that was almost certainly not his own. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry! I totally forgot!”

Derek groaned, and pulled himself up with a weariness familiar from years living in self-reliance for his meals and health. “Then please give me access to some bread and sandwich makings. I won’t tell Holster I stole his chips if you won’t.”

Bitty pulled him into the kitchen shushing him. “Absolutely not --it will only take a minute or ten to heat back up! Dear lord, is it snowing again outside?”

Derek was halted from answering, seeing an unexpected face at the kitchen table looking the worse for the wear.

“Shit, Jack! Hey, bro! Not that I’m not completely stoked to see you, but man, it’s a Wednesday night and you look like you got into a four-round knock-out fight with sandman and lost. What’s up?”

Jack, watery eyes made hollow and thin by the strong fluorescent light overhead, looked up abruptly. He was dressed more casually than when Derek had last seen him a few weeks prior, still in his game-day suit after a nerve-wracking drive through sleeting rain to the Haus’ door. Today he was wrapped up similarly to his tiny boyfriend, in as many soft layers as would fit across his muscular frame. His stubble was long, like he hadn’t bothered to shave in the last few days, though, from the shocked stare Derek was getting, it was probably closer to ‘not thinking about it’ than ‘not caring about it.’ Their captain has always been known for his early nights and even earlier mornings, but the bruises under his eyes made their usually calm droop look catatonic.

Jack’s mouth opened, his throat clicked, and haltingly, he said, “Hey, Nursey.”

“Hey, bro...you okay?”

Derek walked over and took the seat next to his former captain and leaned in cautiously. He yanked off his sheepskin gloves and pulled Jack’s hands out of his mussed dark hair and down to the table in a gentle cage of his own, darker fingers.

“I...my dad called.”

“We don’t have to share with the team, sweetpea.”

“Yes, we do. _I_ do. I...I really get where you were coming from last semester --about not telling anyone about us. And I’ve only known for about two days myself.”

“Known what?” Derek asked to Bitty’s thin-pinched lips.

“Let me get the rest of the boys,” Bitty said instead. “Derek, your food goes into the oven when it beeps, wait another five minutes, and let it cool for one minute before you eat it. And get Jack to the living room couch while you’re at it? I’m going to go wrangle everyone for a Haus-meeting.” The junior pecked his boyfriend’s cheek with infinite care, then vanished through the door and towards the stairs.

Jack stood, holding himself at the entry to the kitchen, head turned to follow Bitty’s frame as until he disappeared at the end of the hall up the stairs. Derek watched carefully as the older man teetered his way to the couch and sat himself on it, sighing to the ceiling, then folding over his knees until the back of the couch blocked him from Derek’s sight.

The oven beeped.

The first sounds of hockey players on the stairs was the soundtrack to Derek’s dinner preparations. Each came down with cheery thumps and gentle hellos to Jack, slowly forming up around him and taking places around the living room chairs, couch, and flooring. Remaining quiet as they waited for Bitty to usher everyone down. Derek finished heating his food just as the junior was returning with Holster and --

\--and Dex.

Holster’s arm dropped from Dex’s shoulder as soon as he spotted Derek in the kitchen, an incredibly sheepish half-smile withering across his face as he cringed and stumbled over his own enormous feet. Derek squinted at him, raising one carefully managed brow. The tall boy shrugged, pushing a frowning Dex into the living room with one massive hand on the small of Dex’s back.

Holster’s hand was swat at for his trouble, and Derek made himself comfortable on the floor with his warm plate of chicken, rice, and roast veggies, using the coffee table as an impromptu dining surface. Holster took the big armchair, while Dex leaned against the back, Chowder had immediately crowded to Derek’s side on the floor, and Ransom and Bitty were on the couch with Jack. Bitty didn’t lay down a throw before sitting, and that was probably what cut off the last of the chatter between them all. Jack smiled weakly at his gathered team, and took a deep breath.

“I got a call from my parents yesterday.”

Derek was familiar with the sense of creeping dread. Cold, numb fingers reaching through his nerve endings and speeding up his heart even as his mind raced, slowing time to molasses-dripping crawl. The feeling he got now was similar.

_Sometimes words are bitter_

_sometimes they are harsh_

_but none are quite as frightening_

_as the ones said in the dark_

_cold and weightless are they_

_that drift over you in hush_

_and chill you somewhere deeper_

_than your bones and guts._

Derek held the poem in his head, no notebook in easy reach. _Is someone sick? A problem with one of their investments? Did a family member die?_ A few possibilities crossed his mind, but Derek wasn’t close to Jack the way Bitty and Chris were. All the ideas coming to him were trite and bland, and none seemed like the sort of things that would put a professional hockey _captain_ on their couch, looking ready to fall over from lack of sleep.

“Are they okay?” Ransom asked, leaning forward to put a hand on Jack’s. Jack in turn looked to his friend with a smile.

“Yeah it’s...it’s not bad, just...holy _shit_.” Jack covered his mouth with one pale, calloused hand, then cracked his neck. “My dad is a B-type. The press conference about it is tomorrow. I came down because I don’t want to be in Providence when it happens.”

The first celebrity B-type is Bad Bob Zimmermann.

The boy’s raucous cheer roars up around him through a bubble of stillness, and then Chris knocks him over. “OH MY GOD ARE YOU SERIOUS THAT BAD BOB ZIMMERMANN IS A B-TYPE?! I WILL SERIOUSLY DIE!!”

Nursey is jostled from side to side as Chowder seizes over him, hollering at a volume to match Holster who is somewhere near their feet, out of his seat and doing something that is causing Dex to scream shrilly with more obscenities than Derek could make out. The pandemonium dies a bare minute later, somewhat abruptly as Derek heaves Chris up. Derek peels himself from the floor and looks to Jack.

Jack is pale and hunched backwards, a horrified tiny grin slapped across his face, half-hidden by his hands softly clutched over his ears, knees pulled up pathetically, halted partway through the action of jerking them to his chest so that they ended up hovering uncertainly over the couch seat. He was trembling.

“My-my dad--” he says, with a waver in his voice that shoots through Derek like a spark of static heat, “--I’m always compared to him, but I’m _not_ , I _can’t--_ ” Jack’s throat clicks around a hard swallow, even as he forcibly relaxes his body into a more natural pose. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to live up to this.”

Bitty wrapped Jack up in his leanly muscular arms, and despite their lacking length, they seem to totally cover the shivering man next to him, “Honey, there is no need to live up to this. I understand that you’re not going to believe that right now, but it’s true. We love you because of you, not who your daddy is and what he did a million years ago.”

Chowder hauled himself over the coffee table, shoving Derek’s forgotten dinner out of the way, and piles onto Jack, “Shitty isn’t here, but he would want you to have this! We love you, Jack. Dad or not.”

There was a quiet chorus of agreement, and Jack’s smile slowly shifted from brittle and terrified, to tired, but warm.

“Thanks,” he croaked.

Chowder curled up over the other’s lap, Bitty still circling Jack’s torso, and Jack’s two hilariously long arms unfolded over all three even as he hid his face in Chowder’s neck and shook with laughing tears. Ransom moved first to put his hand on his former captain’s knee.

Wary of crowding him, they all moved forward to do the same. A huddle of warm body heat and strong hands grasping one another.

_We are not a heap_

_not a mess_

_not thrown together_

_and left to lie broken_

_amongst one another._

_We are grasping hands_

_and outstretched arms_

_and strong bodies_

_to cradle each other._

_We are a net._

Derek wraps his free hand over Dex’s shoulders next to him, _I would catch you,_ and smiles in the red-head’s direction.

The lights catch him by surprise. Dex’s eyes, golden and liquid fire, shifting to eerie acid reflecting pools and then deep orange embers in a face that is not grinning, over shoulders that are stiff and still like stone. They flick in his direction, and their eyes meet.

Dex’s eyes are hurricanes on fire.

“Poindexter?”

Dex stands up, removing himself from their group hug, stepping away with deliberate calm. Then he turns out of the room, and walks back upstairs, turning towards the bathroom and attic door, rather than towards Chowder and Bitty’s rooms. When Derek turns back, Holster meets his eyes, and his tiny frown reflects how Derek is feeling exactly.

 

The next morning, news of an upcoming press conference spreads quickly. The hook lines did a good job of riling up the student body, too. Derek glances over his phone screen with every alert ping, _First Celebrity B-Type Revealed!_ And _Hockey Fans, Prepare Yourselves!_ were flashing over his newsfeeds every few minutes. Bad Bob would be holding his conference at an Ice Rink local to him and his wife in Montreal, and so far as Derek could tell, his name hadn’t gotten out yet, but by seven local time...no one in the continental United States _wouldn’t_ know who he was.

Derek didn’t always listen to the conversations he was passing as he traveled through campus, but it felt like every pair of people he passed, and a few solo walkers who were talking on their phones triggered an automatic glance as keywords floated by his head. Reincarnation, B-type, Who, who, _who?_

Derek wanted to scream “It’s my friend’s dad! I get to talk to him tonight over skype! I know! Me! Me!” But held it in. It was an kinetic force guarded carefully under his skin and shivering out in jitters and twitching and a relentlessly jiggling foot.

He glanced at the clock.

Class had been in for about fifteen minutes. Only forty-five more to go.

Great.

Derek bowed over his desk and groaned into the desktop.

He spent a few minutes, maybe, there. Ignoring his American Lit professor, and trying not to jump anytime he derailed his own train of thought to wonder if a sportsman B-type would know anything about famous writers from the past. Luckily, Derek didn’t quite know the answer to that one ( _yet!_ ) and so the urge to scream didn’t spike any higher than it already did, squeezing his throat right at the jaw, just behind his tonsils.

~~_Time is seconds that feel like hours--_ ~~

~~_Patience is a learn’d trait_ ~~

~~_seconds, hours, years in making--_ ~~

~~_a train is coming, a train is coming_ ~~

~~_watch it whistle down the track--_ ~~

~~_I am a poet who cannot show it why is writing so goddamn hard all the time?!_ ~~

A paper wad bounced off Derek’s ear while he contemplated writing a quick forty lines on frustration being a choking force that temperance hammered into will.

Derek snapped his head over.

Oh.

Portman.

Portman glanced to the teacher, smirked, then slunk out of his seat and greased his way past the girl two seats over to pour himself into the seat next to Derek. He didn’t bring his back, notebook, or a writing utensil. “Hey, Derek,” he said, laying his head down too, one corner of his mouth still raised up obnoxiously.

“News says that the B-type celeb is a Hockey-player.”

“Yes, Portman, I know. Shhh!”

Portman rolled his dull green eyes, rubbed a finger showing more band-aids than skin across the bridge of his pock-marked nose and continued, though he did bring his voice down to a whisper. “So do you have any insider info?”

Derek’s throat squeezed shut like anaphylaxis. “Why would you ask me that, Portman?”

“Because if I know anyone who would, it would be you?”

Derek laughed wryly into the table, “No, Portman. I don’t know anything. Do you need anything else?”

“Adam’s number.”

“Adam? Wait--Holster? Why do you need his number?”

“Can you get it for me or not, D?”

“I have it, but I want to ask him first. No sharing of personal contacts is bro-code.”

“Yeah, for fugly chicks!”

“For anyone, Portman, fuck!”

“Eh-HEM, Gentlemen? Do you have something to contribute?”

Derek and Portman both slowly turn their heads up to their professor, and see every face in the room glaring at them.

Derek groaned and put his head back down.

 

Leaving class at ten thirty brought the jitters back full-force. Portman promised to sit next to Derek properly on Tuesday, so they could pass notes like ‘proper teenaged girls’. Portman left with another prodding request for Holster’s number, but accepted Derek’s request to ask the tall blonde first, so long as Derek promised to ask soon. They parted ways in front of the music building. Derek slid inside with a shiver at the sudden heat, and made his way to the downstairs lobby.

The music fraternities were all present, each had a table decked out in their colors and with a few members surrounding them. The band frats Kappa Kappa Psi and Tau Beta Sigma had a few girls discussing their show march while stringing up navy and white birthday decorations.  Sigma Alpha Lota at their red and white table were discussing an episode of some show or another and if they could arrange an watch party for the press conference in one of the studio rooms. And then, there, across the lobby, the Mu Phi Epsilon group doing their Thursday soup sale. Six large crock-pots full of soup for students were heating up with three different soups on two tables draped in purple and gold. Derek wandered over to check out that day’s selection.

Cheese and broccoli was good, but had an alarmingly yellow color that hadn’t worried Derek before he accidentally left some to dry in a bowl on his desk and it had basically become plastic. Still delicious, but saved for particularly stressful days. Chili wasn’t precisely soup, but went well with the still half-frozen weather, and somebody in the frat knew how to make it spicy without burning off Derek’s tongue. Then, in the next crockpot, jackpot.

“Oh, I am getting me a bowl of _that_ ,” he said.

“Hamburger soup?” Jo asked, appearing at his elbow. Derek turned, and the dark-haired girl pecked him on the lips in greeting. “Good choice, it’s a fan favorite.”

Derek looked her up and down, over the nice turtleneck and long pendant necklace and well-made slacks. She had a blazer over one arm, and twined the other around one of his own. “Are you in one of the music frats?”

Jo laughed, “No, Der, not at all! I have work after this is all. Well, sort of work? Can you call it work if you don’t actually get paid? I have an internship with an office downtown. I...I did mention it to you, right? When I saw you before classes started back up?”

Derek grinned, “Babe, if you did, it was when I was thoroughly distracted, if you catch my meaning. Are you meeting Micha for lunch, too?”

“And Mahreen, apparently? We’re getting the study group back together for a stitch n’ bitch or something.” Jo waved a hand by her ear, tasteful golden bangles clinking cheerfully.

“Nah, it’s chill,” Derek replied, tucking his arm away from hers and around her waist to hug her. “Is Micha out of class, yet?”

“She will be, soon. But it will take her a minute to make it to us regardless.”

Derek nodded, “Broken elevator?” he asked.

“Worse. No elevator in the building. Well, _an_ elevator, but the keys are only given to kids with a medical reason and no one broke a leg or got knocked up recently.”

“Damn.”

Mahreen arrived next, leaning into Derek’s back and muttering Urdu curses that Derek couldn’t understand into his shoulderblades. He leaned back into her, reaching a long arm over his shoulder to pat her head gently.

Micha arrives a moment later, dressed to the nines of business casual attire and ushers them along to a small square of seats that look oddly placed near some water fountains. Derek stretches his legs as far as they’ll go in the too-short chairs and drops his messenger bag to the side. “Where are we going to eat? China Garden is across the bus loop, or Thai Thai is a little bit farther that same way.”

“Derek, don’t even joke! I need you to eat the soup!!!” Micha said.

Derek laughed, dodging her swatting hands, “I know, I already picked one.”

“Hamburger,” the girls chorused.

Derek sat up, “Huh? Wait--I’m not that predictable!” The girls flat looks assured him that yes, yes he was. Derek quickly flicked a pen at Micha that she didn’t bother to dodge, only snatch up and slide into her own backpack, overstuffed and full of paper.

Derek sat back, listening to the girls catch up on what they each did over the break and waiting for the sale to begin, mostly over what classes they were in this semester and what looked good for next semester. It was comforting white noise while Derek tried to calm the energy under his skin.

“So who do you think it is, Derek?”

“Huh?”

Jo pinched his arm playfully, “I asked who you thought the B-type doing a press conference is today --I said that it had to be a hockey player while Micha swears there’s no way, and that it’s some coach with an overblown sense of importance.”

Derek turned to frown at Micha, “Coaches are hella important, Mike.”

“If you ask a Texan to name a hockey player they might know one or two, but not one could name a coach. I stand by the idea that _in any sport_ ,” she blew a raspberry at Jo, “a coach is just _not_ as famous as their best players.”

Derek smirked, “Would a Texan say that about their football coaches?” Micha blew a raspberry to him, too.

 _I know who it is! I know who it is!!_ His inner ten-year-old was having heart palpitations as they all got up to get soup. Derek taking two bowls of the hamburger, Micha and Jo with Chili, and Mahreen with a bowl of the suspicious yellow cheese and broccoli. They all returned to their chairs and blew on their spoons.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Derek asked.

“Who do you think it is?”

_I know who it is! I know who it is! I know! I know! I know I know I know!!!_

Derek looked around.

“Are any practice rooms open?”

“Probably not,” Micha replied. “Piano performance majors are, literally, insane.”

Derek breathed deeply. “I can’t tell you, then. But...I do...sort of...know something.”

Mahreen pulled back, then leaned in so close Derek could see the individual stitches in the embroidery of her hijab, dull glittering lines in the harsh fluorescent lights. “Something?” she asked, “Or some _one_?”

Derek looked around again, “Both?”

Mahreen nodded. “Excuse me.”

Derek, Micha, and Jo watched Mahreen get up, then walk in the direction of the practice rooms. A minute later a girl came out and walked over to them, violin in hand. “So...a girl just gave me six bucks to get myself a coffee across the road. You are apparently holding my practice room for me for the next ten minutes while I go get it. Sound about right?”

“Wow. Mahreen is good.”

Jo and Derek nodded, and the girl left the building like Mahreen would change her mind and take her money back. Derek, Jo, and Micha gathered all of their things and went to the practice room hallway. Sure enough, through one of the glass-faced doors, Mahreen was waving at them. The room was too small for four people and all of their things, but Jo crowded into Derek to save space.

Mahreen glared at him, Derek shrugged back, pulling Jo in closer with an arm around her shoulders.

All their bags were left outside, and their soup held carefully to avoid spilling.

“So, I may know who it is,” Derek said.

“I fucking knew it was Jack Zimmermann,” said Micha. “I _fucking_ knew it! Didn’t I say it? Didn’t I?”

“It’s not Jack,” Derek replied.

Jo and Mahreen laughed as Micha gaped at Derek with her entire face dropped into an ‘o’. “But you don’t know any other famous hockey players!”

“I know his dad,” Derek said, “who happened to call his son a few days ago with the news that he was a B-type and that the press-conference is today.”

“And how does having a hockey-player son make him famous?” Jo asked.

Mahreen dropped her head to the wall and laughed while Derek tucked his head down to say, “Jo, babe, Jack is hockey legacy. Bad Bob Zimmermann is like, four times as famous as his son. Non-hockey people know him, even. Mostly chicks who were younger in the eighties. He’s married to Alicia Wilde?”

Jo and Micha’s expressions matched perfectly then, and Mahreen and Derek laughed harder as the other two girls’ faces snapped between each other and Derek, squeaking out tiny wordless exclamations.

“He’s going to skype the hockey team after the press conference, too,” Derek said, unable to stop his mouth, under control of his inner child finally finding an outlet for his obsessive need to have someone else, _anyone_ else, to share his news with that didn’t already know it. “We’re going to ask him any questions we want for a whole hour, at least.”

“You are shitting me! Tell me that you’re going to text me everything!” Jo said at last, sucking in a breath.

“ _Us_!” interrupted Micha.

An uncertainty hit him then, with the unyielding pressure of a secret gone, and three expectant pairs of eyes on him, Derek took a mental step back. “Only if you promise to keep it quiet,” he said. “I mean, reasonably. I’m only telling you who it is because in about six hours everyone else will know, too.”

“What if you only tell us the really awesome stuff?” Jo said.

Derek thought about his inner child, and the pressure that had popped like a balloon as soon as he told them Bad Bob’s name. “I’m not sure I could stop myself, honestly.”

“ _Yeesssss_ ,” Micha hissed, spoon hand pumping the air.

“Oh my god class is going to be torture,” Jo said.

“ _Your_ classes will be torture?” Derek retorted, “ _Mine_ will be torture!” He dropped his empty soup bowls into the small trashcan next to the door, then ran fingers through his curls, gripping near his scalp to feel the tingling pull, “I get to talk to this guy afterwards. I’ve been thinking of questions all day, but I haven’t even bothered to write any down because I don’t know what all he’s going to say in his conference, or the question is just stupid, or, and this is the worst one, what if it’s just a _really rude_ question that doesn’t seem rude until he answers? If you’re not supposed to ask how old a woman is, would it be rude to ask a B-type? Would they even remember enough to let you know?”

There was a knock on the door.

The girl was back with her coffee and her violin.

Derek departed from the girls as soon as Mahreen had stolen his phone to create a group chat. Reluctantly, he texted Holster about Portman’s request, then trudged his way back to the english building through the chill of the afternoon, weak sunlight doing little to warm the sidewalk or the earth, pulling his gloves on and skipping along carefully to blow off the last of his excitement. When he got to the building he didn’t want to be spazzing out.

 

Six o’clock came with a stillness. Derek noticed it as he went to the Haus, where Jack, Shitty, and just about every single member from the first three lines of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team were all crowded into the kitchen and living areas to watch the conference, Mr. Roger’s desktop off to the side awkwardly, ready to connect to skype at a moment’s notice, the job not trusted to even the smartest of laptops.

The streets were empty save of a few straggling souls such as Derek still finding their place to watch the conference, or people staring morosely at their phones while their jobs went half-ignored. Derek’s tea had taken almost six minutes to get to him. The Haus was a welcome reprieve, full of bustling hockey players jockeying for placements around the couch. The smell wasn’t unsimilar to their locker room, but cleaner, where instead of sweat, overheated wool was the hovering scent under deodorant and cologne. Almost every hand held a plate of pie slices, from two or more pies, and Bitty was calling something across the kitchen as he completed a few more and dinner besides, Chowder at his elbow.

“Hey,” Derek said, leaning in ruffle Chris’ hair. “You ready?”

“Not even close,” Chowder replied, jittering and stirring the mashed potatoes in the pot in front of himself, melting what looked like might be a whole stick of butter, roughly cubed, into the off-white fluff. “I know that we’re supposed to be supporting Jack, but it’s really hard not to show how I excited I am tonight.” Chowder nodded his head to the living room, “You can see I’m not the only one.”

There was a crash that sounded like one of the dining room chairs had fallen over.

“It’s all chill, C.”

Bitty pulled Derek away and to another space on the counter, with two punch bowls full of cut up lettuce and what looked to be a few cucumbers each chopped up. Bitty shoved a bunch of carrots at him with a knife and a cutting board. “Chop these into the bowls, please.” Then the junior vanished again. While Derek started to chop, Chowder continued to talk to him.

“Doesn’t it feel sort of weird that yesterday we were all gung-ho about supporting Jack through this, but got so lost in getting to know this about his dad? I mean, Jack is still upstairs in Bitty’s room…”

Derek reached out and squeezed Chris’ shoulder, “He’ll be fine. Tell you what --let’s ask him if he knows anything about the World Wars. Jack loves that time period, right? Or we can ask him if there’s anyone he knows he would know about then.”

Chowder’s answering grin barely showed his braces, but he nodded. “We can also ask about his favorite pie flavors and training activities?”

“Yeah, normal hockey stuff. Good thinking, Chowder.”

Chowder relaxed more after that, but still bounced on the balls of his feet, tapping his toes and bobbing his head to a song playing somewhere between his ears. Derek leaned back a bit to watch Chowder’s rear end jiggle.

_Mmm...nice._

Derek refocused, before he could chop his own finger off.

“Pardon!” Bitty said, squeezing by to get to Betsy II, oven mitts already covering his hands, “Chowder, please turn off the stove and move the mashed potatoes to that trivet there --I need to take the roast and the meatloaf out of Betsy, and they’re going to stay on the stove.” Chowder did as bid and was sent to gather pre-cut veggies and dressings from the fridge.

“I have the grilled vegetables,” Mr. Rogers said, bundled in a coat and hat, with a foil pan in his hands.

“There,” said Bitty, pointing, “trivet!”

Mr. Rogers chuckled, and removed himself from the kitchen.

“Hols! Ransom! Have you two finished filling up the coolers?!” Bitty shouted out the kitchen door.

Ransom turned around it the next moment, rubbing the back of his head, “S’just me, Bitty. And no, because Hols and Dex are still at Murder Stop’n’Shop getting ice. It’s just pouring the ice in after that, so we’ll be fine. They have five minutes.”

“Five?!” Bitty bustled off to do --well, Derek didn’t really know, but he scooped the last of the chopped carrots into the salads and leaned against the counter to watch, Chowder at his side.

Ransom high-fived then leaned in to give Derek a hug. Derek rubbed his face into the Senior’s chest, breathing deeply. Musk and coconut and healthy, clean sweat filled his nose, along with a dose of some Axe spice. The Axe must have been Holster’s. “Ah, I had no idea how much I wanted a hug today,” Derek said.

Immediately Chowder latched onto his side, long arms around both him and the senior co-captain. “I can solve that!” Chowder cried happily. He squeezed joyfully, and Derek wanted to check if he popped one of his legs, but he was happily squashed into Ransom’s torso...and, well.

_Ransom’s torso._

Enough said.

Bitty came back into the kitchen hanging up his cell, the tilt of his shoulders softer. “They’re just outside. Rans can you go bring the coolers into the dining room?”

The co-captain disentangled himself, and left Derek to cuddle a wiggling goalie. “We’ll go tell the guys that dinner is served?” he tried.

“Get the biscuits out of the oven, first.”

Derek looked at the oven. _When did biscuits go in?_

“Sure, bro,” he said, and pulled on the oven mitts. He cracked the oven door and peeked inside. A tray of biscuits, golden brown with glistening buttery tops sat inside. “Bitty --you are a baking god. No, that’s not hyperbole.”

“Shush, you charmer! I’m going to put these pies on so they can finish up before we start the skype up, so get those out and let me by. Trivet is to your right!”

Holster and Dex boom through the front door --or rather, Holster boomed and Dex followed in the beat of silence left behind. “Ice! Rans, where are the coolers?”

“Dining room!”

“Dinner! Come get your plates!” Chowder shouted into the living area, and the team slowly groaned, getting up from their hard earned spots to get their food from the kitchen. A third-line forward named Butts asked why they hadn’t just ordered in, and received six quick slaps to the back of the head.

“Boys!” Bitty huffed, small hands on his hips and frowning, but turned to the offender. “Butts, have you even had any of the pie?”

“No?”

“Oh you precious toddler. Move! He obviously needs to be at the front of the line!”

It took almost eight minutes to get everyone through the line for food, poor fool Butts, Shitty, and Jack first, followed by everyone else. By the time Derek was settling in and starting on his food, the conference was up on the TV with ESPN and NHL backboards behind a plain table covered in microphones. To each side were flags, American, Canadian, and by Canada’s, Quebec's flag. Their green couch was full to bursting, Jack in the center, Bitty on his lap, Shitty and Ransom to his left, and Holster to his right.

Dex was still standing, looking for a spare square of floor to sit himself when the first sounds of clapping came through the television speakers. Holster shifted his plate, pulled Dex down into his lap, and locked his arm around the younger boy’s hips. “Got your back,” he said. Dex audibly swallowed a retort, and Derek clenched his teeth on the lump at the back of his mouth and turned to the screen.

The sound of clapping intensified, and Bad Bob Zimmermann came into view, walking sedately from the left, Alicia briefly in-shot to give him a kiss on the cheek, and squeeze his shoulders. He smiled at her with his dark eyes, strange to Derek for it’s light-eyed mirror on the couch next to him. He leaned into the microphones before sitting, “Thank you for coming,” he said.

He looked out with his eyes, and then, grinning, gave a wave, “Wow, it’s been awhile since I’ve done press after a game, I don’t seem to remember it being quite this crowded!”

There was a light amount of polite chuckles, and Bad Bob shook his head, fatherly smile across his handsome features.

“For those of you who don’t know, my name is Robert Zimmermann, a retired NHL player with the Penguins. I’ve won three Stanley Cups, and I’m the father of Jack Zimmermann, of the Providence Falconers, and one of the league’s current top scorers. My wife, as you’ve seen, is Miss Alicia Wilde, who is set to appear in an independent film at Sundance this year, if you’ll believe it! And I, am --well. You call us B-types after some kind of radiation.”

He chuckled.

“I had never known about radiation. My last life was too long ago. Now, we have a different name for each other. Why no one’s brought it up before now is beyond me. Maybe they think it sounds silly, but I’m an old horse, really, so I think I’ll stick with it.” He looks to the camera, “I am an Incarnate. At least, that’s the english translation so far as I can figure it.”

 _Incarnate,_ thought Derek, reverently. It certainly didn’t sound like a B-type, but it was more descriptive. Mysticism in a small pocket of reality, like a superhero or a god come to life.

“I’m told that several of you won’t believe me unless you can see my paperwork, so I’ve provided it for public review on both the University of Pennsylvania’s website, the Smithsonian’s public documents collection, and as a release to several reputable news groups. Yes, it’s real. Yes, I am verified.”

The crowd burst into questions and chattering and it took his shushing them to calm them again, Derek was half-aware of the fork-full of slowly cooling food hovering partway to his mouth.

“Thank you, thank you, I wasn’t quite sure where to begin, but I know a few things I want to make very clear: My current life isn’t one that I feel much need to share, and my previous lives are the same in that regard, I have no problem sharing time periods, or information on how we got on in certain areas, general attitudes and other things of that nature, but I will not answer questions of a personal nature. They were my lives. Not yours. Ask me what you want to know about Incarnate culture, because it seems you’ve failed to realize that we have one, I’m more likely to answer. Lastly,” the next several words were garbled.

“What?” asked Bitty, looking to Jack.

“That wasn’t French,” Jack replied, leaning in.

Bad Bob chuckled, “Sorry, a message for some friends of mine. Most of them ought to remember. It’s a very old dialect that eventually became Tamil.”

_Somewhere in the world a linguist just jizzed their pants._

Bad Bob paused here, and seemed to consider his next words, “Moving on --I have read many articles on the subject of my experiences in the contemporary era. What difficulties Incarnates have in being believed to be what we claim, on if our experiences are noteworthy, or even if they happened at all.

“And I understand. I _do_ , the impossibility of it all must frustrate you. After I went through my tests I was asked about a dozen times by my doctors if there was any way to prove that such improbable truths could exist. So, I suppose that leads me to the only other thing I really wanted to share with you tonight.

“For most of us, this holds no bearing. Only the oldest of us have this, and it doesn’t seem to be something the younger of us will ever get, even when they come closer to my age. A more scientific mind than mine will have to confirm that, but it’s what I’ve been told for the past couple thousand years, and with my own observations, I’m inclined to believe it.

“Some of you don’t understand how we count age, so let me clarify: The oldest of us does _not_ refer to the _span_ of our lives. I’ve been told by a reliable source --yes, that means another, older Incarnate-- that my first few lives happened around twenty-five thousand years ago.”

“ _Holy fucking shit,_ ” said Jack, chorused by several dropped forks and a few audible gasps. “That’s before recorded history.”

“We also have _gaps_ in between lifetimes. _Age,_ as we count it, is similar to how _you_ would; the number of years we have been awake on this earth, with some provisions set aside for the admittedly large chunks that we lose over time. My span is twenty-five thousand years. I have lived for approximately six-thousand two hundred of them. I remember about half of that. So my _age,_ as I count it, is about three thousand years.”

He paused to let the disbelief roll through the crowd.

“Yes, I just told you I am three thousand years old. Looking good, right?”

“Honey,” Bitty said, “Let me take your plate, please…”

Derek twisted to see Jack looking pale in the face, plate of food mostly eaten, but entirely forgotten as it droops slowly and inevitably towards the top of Chowder’s head. A piece of grilled squash is already sitting on Chowder’s raven crown, apparently unnoticed by the sophomore still staring reverently at the screen.

Tango reaches to pluck it from Chowder’s head, and stands to muttered complaints from the rest of the team. He snags both Jack’s plate from slack fingers, and Bitty’s before stepping away, Derek assumes towards the kitchen.

Bad Bob continues to talk though the television speakers, “Back to my point: the oldest of us can prove what we are.”

The TV roared even as the Haus living room was silent, even the scraping of forks stopped.

“There is no way for the people outside of this hockey rink to know that this isn’t an illusion. I know, I suppose I’m asking for your trust here. Please look here,” he said. He walked to the side and picked up a huge metal weight one-handed from a metal rack. It was a massive black barbell plate that looked to be several inches wide and almost as big around as Bad Bob’s torso was long. It had a bright yellow paint all around the rim. He knocked on it with his opposite hand and it chimed cheerily.

“This is almost two hundred pounds. I had it specially made for my home. Here,” he deftly tossed it over his head and caught it with his other hand, holding it out towards the journalists. “Take a look.”

Derek laughed a little, a grin unbidden on his face, “Ha, that’s not--”

The journalists stumbled and it took about six of them to hold the disk up.

“-- _real_?”

“ _I was never allowed to touch that set,_ ” Jack whispered.

Bob quaintly lifted it, the muscles of his arms hardly seeming to strain under his buttondown. He reached over, grabbing another from the same rack. He tossed them in the air, and they sailed over his head gracefully. He caught them again, juggling the weights carefully in arcs of black and yellow. “The oldest of us,” he said, barely out of breath, “are often a bit like superman.”

The crowd went wild.

 

Derek was hardly present for the rest of the conference. He was still watching, still heard Bad Bob’s answers, but it was all a little abstract. B-types--Incarnates had literal superpowers. Sort of. They only had one each. Bob’s was the most common, super strength that gave his history as a goon on the ice so much more weight than he’d had before. Enough to lift a car, but nowhere enough to lift a bus. The next most common was speed, apparently, enough to keep up with a street-legal car. Some Incarnates had other abilities --that’s what he’d called them, _abilities_ \-- incredible body control, a powerful sense of smell or sight on par with a dog or a hawk.

Derek wondered briefly if he’d just walked into a young adult novel sometime in mid-November and just hadn’t found his way back out, yet. “This is nuts.”

“FUCKING FUCK, JACQUES LAURENT YOUR FATHER IS RIPPED!” Shitty screamed. Derek shot around to glare, but Jack was still drooped over his knees, Bitty clinging a bit like a strange blonde koala, beautiful mouth hanging open at the screen, hardly seeming to notice. “My dad has superpowers.”

“A superpower,” corrected Bitty.

A wobble of lip, and Jack’s head ducked down to cover his eyes with his long bangs. Bitty squeezed him as his shoulders shivered, then jerked, and the small broken sounds coming from their ex-captain bubbled up, a tense shock growing because _Jack wasn’t supposed to cry._ And then Jack’s whole body rocked back as he burst into hysterical guffaws, clutching Bitty, frozen in his look of terrorized concern, to his chest as he rocked back into the couch and teetered before collapsing on Shitty and shaking there with out-of-breath giggles and tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.

“Oh my _god_ , my dad is an actual Disney prince and I can’t even handle this right now!” He wiped his sleeve over his eyes, a slow drag that made his eyes appear even more basset-hound exhausted than they’d been when only bloodshot and tense. All the tension was gone, though, leaving behind tired mirth and the thin shine of defeat accepted over a watery smile.

“Do you still want to skype with him?” asked Bitty, “You can say no. It’s perfectly alright to say no!”

“I--” Jack breathed out heavily, lifting himself and Bitty slowly off of Shitty, who whined. “--I honestly have no idea. Can you go get those pies from the oven? I’m going to eat an entire one by myself. Well, half of one. Maybe. You can share.”

Bitty was up and gone almost before Jack was done scaling himself back from hypothetical diet breaking.

Bitty returned to a few of the boys, led by Mr. Rogers, asking him if he was secretly a B-type- _Incarnate_ \- with supernatural baking skills. “That’s not even a thing!” Bitty said, kicking out carefully, whole pie in hand. It smelled like apples.

“I have it set up!” Wicky called, “we’re ready to receive the call any time!” Ollie pat his friend on the back, slapping his cap over the other’s head.

Jack looked over, eyes comically wide. Holster and Ransom batted at him with pillows. Dex was still precariously perched on Holster’s lap, sneering at them all with an expression like babies eating lemons. “Let me down, Holster, fuck. I don’t need to be in the middle of an impromptu pillow war!”

Holster turned his grin to Dex, then he dumped the red-head in his spot while he and Ransom shot up to begin pelting the whole team with pillows, blankets, empty beer and soda cans, and any other lightweight object in reach of their long arms. Bitty lept up to save the plates and baked goods, leaving Dex with Jack and Shitty on the couch. The din was relaxing, if only because Holster and Ransom were utterly familiar in their lack of decorum and love of loud noises. Derek curled over his knees when Chowder took his plate, and turned to look at the handsome men on the couch.

Shitty drew Jack in, holding him loosely in the circle of his arms and sniffing at imaginary tears, Jack still strung tight. Dex was drawn in, feet tucked awkwardly beneath him from Holster’s ungentle drop, and eyes flashing as his eyes flicked from side to side with his thoughts. The paint splatters of his freckles making him look gritty like painted Realism. Dex turned to Jack.

“He’s just a man,” he says. Jack turned.

“What?”

“Your father. He’s just a man. Bitty is right --you could refuse to talk to him now. He just showed you that the most powerful thing about him could kill you. Quickly. And given his history on the ice that you’re so jealous of, could have killed more than one person during his career if he’d really lost it.” Dex didn’t reach out a hand, or do more than look at Jack, really, a steady meeting of the eyes. “He is terrifying, Jack.”

Jack sat up, Shitty too, and leaning away as if Dex had slapped them across their faces.

“My dad would never hurt anyone!” The shout halted Holster and Ransom in their tracks, leaving the living room buzzing without words.

“He didn’t get his nickname for no reason, Jack.”

“Bullshit! You don’t know him!” Jack straightened, his frown severe.

_Royalty begets royalty_

_you see it in the spine_

_a pale-faced determination_

_drained of blood_

_but full of vigor_

_and drawing out a line_

_cross or do not cross_

_the choice is yours_

_and only you can make it_

_rally to your cause_

_and I’ll rally to mine._

“My dad didn’t somehow morph into a monster when he took that test! He’s known what he is the whole time! He never knocked someone out on the ice, ever! He put them down and took his penalty minutes for it! My dad has been nothing but supportive of me and my mom for my whole life --when I overdosed, he didn’t sleep for my entire hospital stay! When I was learning how to _read_ again, how to _walk_ again, when I thought my life was _over_ he was the only to keep me going! He pushed me every day to wake up, to try again, to take care of myself! He,” Jack reeled, pushing a hand through his hair, “... _carried my two hundred twenty pound self upstairs_ like a _baby_ when I couldn’t bare to myself. He took care of me when I _wouldn’t_ and always told me I _could_ until I believed it. He is, to this day, the person I look up to the most in the entire goddamn world.”

“Jack,” Shitty stuttered, grabbing his friend’s arm.

“No! Dex can’t talk shit about my dad!”

“I wasn’t,” Dex said quietly, cutting through the air of the quiet living room. He smiled wryly, “Are you still scared shitless of talking to your dad, after all that?”

Jack, standing and breathing hard, shivered, and gaped. Derek was a little tingly himself.

“No,” said Jack, “I’m not.”

“Good,” replied Dex, turning to the computer, its monitor, and the camera Bitty had set up to work as their webcam. “He’s calling.”

Jack huffed a single, robotic ‘ha’, fell to the couch cushions, and said, “Hey, Bits...can you answer that?” Then, softly, “Thanks, Dex.”

“Got your back, man.”

Holster was gazing down on Dex from above, his expression soft and wondrous while looking down at the explosion of orange hair on the couch. Derek huffed and turned to the computer.

The call picture loaded up, Alicia and Bob set up in their living room, Alicia calm and poised while Bob figeted and had the same look of anxious excitement that Jack would have when he came by to surprise Bitty and his small boyfriend was yet to get home. Their house looked nice, similar colors to Derek’s moms’ brownstone, but more lived-in. Evidence of occupation in the throw blankets tossed haphazard over the couch arm and the coffee mugs set down and forgotten about on the mantel behind the seated figures.

Jack took a breath and sighed into his exhale, “ _Dad_.”

“I wanted to tell you son, I really did,” Bob replied.

“Hey, Jack,” said Alicia, pushing a stray lock of ash blonde behind her ear.

Bad Bob smiled at his wife, again a strange mirror of Jack, and back at their screen. “Do you have any questions for me, son?”

Jack wavered, “No, papa. I will, eventually, but for now, no.” Bob’s son leaned into the couch and sunk into Shitty’s side, Bitty snuggling into him.

“I have one!” Chowder exclaimed, raising his hand high over his head and waving it about.

Bob and Alicia chuckled. “Fire away, kid.”

Chowder flushed from his hairline to the neck of his sweatshirt. “I’m Chowder, by the way! Well, Chris, but my nickname is Chowder --I have Jack’s old room in the Haus?” He grinned sunnily, showing off his braces and wiggling incessantly, “I wanted to know if you know about any wars? You said you weren’t around when radiation was discovered, so maybe not the _world wars_ , like I was hoping, but, like, others?”

Bob’s slightly pixilated face looked a little surprised, but not in a bad way. “I was alive during several wars. Most recently, ah, the American Revolution. I was one of the men who fought to ‘make America free’.”

“ _I change my mind I have a question, papa!_ ” Jack winced, his voice had cracked halfway through his sentence.

“Of course, son.”

“Did you... _c'est étrange_...Okay, so I read that a lot of B-types, uh, Incarnates, were present during the American Revolution, did you have any Incarnate friends fighting with you?”

Bob laughed, but Holster interrupted, “Bro, no, that is not how this questioning will work! We have to ask AWESOME questions! Like--Mr. Z, did you ever meet George Washington?!”

Bad Bob’s laughter harder, unsuccessfully stifling it behind his hand. It took a minute for him to answer, “I had many friends fight with me, and yes, some Incarnates among them. Many, really. It was a very active time period for us. I was happy I didn’t have to see many of them pass away, though. Even when you know it’s ‘see you later’ and not ‘goodbye’ deaths are tough. And Holster? I did meet him.”

Jack choked on a strange noise while Holster whooped, throwing his hands into the air and doing a celly with Ransom. Derek felt Chowder gripping his arm and heard him squeeing, and Derek looked to Dex to see if the same giddy _what the fuck_ air pocket had taken up his reality, too.

Every line of Dex’s body on the couch projected misery. Curled in and stiff-shouldered, too-deep too-even breaths taken in through flaring nostrils and pale skin making his freckles stand out like brown specks of mud. His eyes were flat and dead, completely shut off and glassily reflecting the distorted tiny image of Bob laughing while Alicia slapped his shoulder from her own indignant disbelief. One jean-clad leg stretched to the floor.

Dex stood, “I have to go now.”

“Hey--” Derek called out, and Dex rounded the corner into the hall, the thump of him going up the stairs unmasked by the calming hockey players.

“Where are you--” Holster said, his arm outstretched to empty air.

“Is...is he alright?” asked Bob.

“He was a minute ago,” replied Bitty.

More thumping echoed down the stairs, then Dex reappeared, backpack and coat fit snugly across his shoulders and zipped tight. A toque covered his hair and ears, mittens being pulled over his hands as he passed the living room entry.

“Dex, wait!” Holster cried, following him. The door slammed behind them.

“Uh...next question?” asked Bad Bob.

Derek swallowed slowly twice, glanced at Ransom who was blinking at the entry like an unfamiliar thing, all soft confused eyes and pinched mouth, and turned back to the computer.

“I have one,” Derek said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been back at work, which means a proper typing and word-processing computer, so YAY! Have a chapter I slammed out in about four days. We're getting to the stuff that's as little more WTF, but I promise ALL of it has been hinted at (badly) and is NOT just random additions for the sake of random additions! Hurricane Harvey hit us sort of bad in my district, and I'm still not sure how many of my students will be returning on Monday, but HEY! What can you do? Much love and support and prayers for anyone about to be stomped on by Irma! If you're asked to evacuate- do it quick.
> 
> Super excited to to to STAPLE this weekend --gonna try to meet Ngozi!
> 
> As usual: If you see a thing, let me know! I edit what I can, but I definitely miss things! **Comments feed hungry authors,** so please leave a comment below if you liked the chapter or have a theory as to what's going on!


	8. Death is a Thousand Cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His phone buzzed.
> 
> It buzzed a few more times, and Derek wearily lifted it from his nightstand to look at the time. Just cresting past one-o’clock.
> 
> _How terrible the hour_
> 
> _when unexpected strife_
> 
> _steals from us our moments_
> 
> _of temporary bliss_
> 
> _and curdles them unpleasant_
> 
> _from on our very tongues_
> 
> _and what had been happy_
> 
> _becomes a font of blight._
> 
> Derek didn’t write it down, but clicked open his screen to look at the team’s scattered messages of goodnight.
> 
> **The Hot Captain:** _Goodnight, SMH! HAPPY VALENTINES DAY YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARDS!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <<-these are sweethearts just 4 u bros!!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another HUGE chapter- 29 pages!
> 
> For those who are sensitive to it, there is an EXPLICIT scene near the end. To avoid it, stop reading at _"Derek shuddered excitedly and he reached out to wrap his hands around the red lace, thumbing the frilled edge."_ and pick back up with the paragraph that starts with _"They lie in the bed, soft music crooning from Derek’s speaker, panting and satisfied."_ WARNING: There is some un-negotiated unsafe-sex practice, which is not cool in any way ya'll!
> 
> So...the date this was posted was unplanned, but extremely fortuitous, no?
> 
> Remember - COMMENTS FEED HUNGRY PLOT BUNNIES!!!! PLEASE FEED THE BUNNY!!!!

Derek collapsed onto the squashy library chair by the third floor information desk and let himself  _ sink. _ He lost himself to the ceiling texture, letting it swirl about above him as his eyes attempted to focus the tiny whorls into a sensical pattern. Chowder dropped into the chair next to his, leaning back much the same way, but with heavy sunglasses over his eyes as he groaned pathetically to the air.

“Why,  _ why _ did Ransom think a drinking game would be fun?”

“It  _ was  _ fun,” Derek reminded him, “we just need to have less ‘shot’ instances and swap for ‘sip’ instances.”

“ _ Four _ people threw up at practice today.”

_ Not including Holster and Dex, _ thought Derek balefully. It wasn’t fair of him, he knew, but both Dex and Holster arriving together as Derek and Ransom looked on from where they were already half-dressed, nursing pounding heads. It just felt like betrayal in the dim light of the cloudy morning. Holster’s massive, meaty arm slung across Dex’s shoulders as they came in struck the sophomore like a puck to the chest --all bruising on his sternum, making him feel weak and out of breath.

It wasn’t any better on the fourth day than on the first, either.

“Maybe switch ‘shot’ for ‘sip’ on stories about friends?”

“ _ Yes,” _ Derek moaned. “I don’t even remember anything past Mr Bob’s story about the time where he and his friends were trying to get a Jaguar into someone’s house.”

Chowder slowly pulled an arm over his eyes to block more light, “You didn’t forget much, then, they didn’t succeed and one of his friends got scratched on the butt.”

“Hehe,  _ yeah _ . Chill.”

There was a loud clatter to their side, and they whined limply.

“What is wrong with everyone today? Did you all go on a bender or something? Jack used to tell us not to drink on weeknights -- _ I expect you to give one hundred percent on the ice every morning, especially during practice! _ Remember?”

“Fuck off, Poindexter.”

“You’re lack of chill is showing, Nurse.”

Derek groaned, and pulled his sweater up until the body-warm silk and merino blend met his beanie’s brim, leaving only a sliver of skin winking from between them.

“Dex, Dex --we’re in pain! Pity us!” Chowder moaned with a smile, “The agony!”

Derek heard Dex’s things settle onto the low table amidst the chairs and then a startled moan.

“Oh, oh my  _ god, Dex _ ! Your hands are magical!”

“Said the actress to the bishop,” snorted Derek, regretting it with the sting of pain the action sent singing through his frontal lobe. Dex huffed derisively mumbling mockingly under his breath. Derek ignored it, and shifted in his seat as Chowder continued to whimper and sigh. After another shaky groan sighed out from between Chowder’s teeth, Derek crossed his legs.

“Oooh,  _ thank you _ , Dex --do Nursey next.”

“No,” Derek said immediately.

“Aw, but it felt so good!”

“C, I want you to think  _ really hard _ about the last few noises you’ve made out of context,” Dex said.

“I--oh. _ OH! _ Oh my goodness, sorry Dex! But seriously, it felt really nice.”

The fabric was pulled away from Derek’s face with a sharp tug, and Derek was smart enough to keep his eyes closed. “C wants me to rub your head.”

“That sounds like torture to me,” Derek hissed, squeezing his poor, overworked eyes from the red-warm light that filtered through his eyelids.

“Shut up, Nurse,” Dex replied, but it was without vitriol, and the soft thud of footsteps circled around Derek’s seat. Warm fingers dug into Derek’s throbbing skull, carding through his hair in firm, sure waves, and while Derek’s head still stung and ached, the brunette was quite aware he would never ask Dex to stop. Chowder was right, the soothing scratch and pull across his scalp felt  _ incredible _ , and Derek could barely feel the aching that had turned a regular morning practice into a thinly-veiled attempt of murder via on-ice hangover related accidents. More than that, though, Dex was doing his once-in-a-blue-moon impression of a living, breathing person…

...and touching Derek with devastating gentleness.

“Oh  _ fuck, _ ” Derek whimpered.

_ Holster’s deep baritone moaned and broke into a higher-pitched whine, “Oh--oh fuck!” _

Derek’s arm slapped over his head viciously, knocking into Dex’s arms and elbows, shocks of sensation shivering down his body as he sat up abruptly, squinting through the Library and croaked, “No~pe! Too weird!” Derek squinted up at Will, the other’s hands raised up and away, palms out placatingly.

Dex rolled pale, yellow eyes, “Fine, whatever. I tried, Chowder.” Chowder frowned, but it was a puppy-pout, and while it pulled at all the wrong strings in him, Derek didn’t feel for him enough to let Dex’s hands continue to pet his scalp.

A few minutes later the boys were pulling out their work and slogging through their varied assignments, Chowder and Derek’s slow sorting and shuffling in sharp counterpoint to the furious clacking of Dex’s laptop keyboard. It was a large and clunky thing, and one side looked fuzzy with thin lint, like soda had spilled and not quite been cleaned off totally and was clinging to the dust out of the very air.

_ I sit, surrounded, by dusty tombs _

_ of mind and heart and body _

_ my muscles ache _

_ my brain breaks _

_ my organs feel as putty _

_ You sit, enraptured, by quick machine _

_ by artificial blood binary _

_ your muscles tensed _

_ your brain a race _

_ your organs run on empty. _

Derek grudgingly twisted over the side of the library seat, to dig out a spiral and flip to the back. The pages there were covered in scrawlings, some angry scribbles tacked on during idle class time, some morose script looping together in the middle of wine-drunk evenings listening to the tales of an immortal father. A few were in the faint plain letters of Derek at his most dangerous: stone-cold sober and clear-headed, full of the knowledge that Dex, for all his days of non-combative normalcy, would probably drop-kick him down an elevator shaft if they weren’t on the same hockey team.

Does Derek have a problem? Is Derek somehow flawed enough as a facade of a human that people only humor his wide smiles and love of terrible cliched stories? 

He sighed silently, a warm puff of breath ghosting over his upper lip. Liking people sucks.

Love  _ sucks. _

It trips you up and turns you inside out, endlessly making you second-guess yourself. This was why Derek preferred friends with benefits arrangements --no feelings, no mess, no commitment and no calling the next morning or forgetting and getting cut off.

He should call Jo.

Or Mahreen.

Probably Mahreen. Jo was chill, but Derek got the impression he bored her. Any time they lapsed into what Derek thought was quiet contemplation or calm ability to just  _ be,  _ she turned around on him and either started a conversation, sighed and asked if they could go and  _ do something, _ or rolled him onto his back and blew him out of his mind for an afternoon in ways that certainly weren’t  _ silent _ .

Granted, the last one was pretty stellar, and he wasn’t complaining, but having to be  _ on  _ for someone all the time was exhausting.

Derek tucked his pen behind his ear, finished writing down the last of his poem, and reached down for his bookbag.

 

Mahreen, Jo, and Micha had taken over their preferred booth at Jerry’s, a cup of the house-blend coffee steaming at the end of the booth already waiting for Derek as he shook the chill from his pullover and peeled off his sheepskin gloves.

“Yo,” he said, sliding into the booth and gracefully picks up the mug.

It immediately sloshes all over his hand, “Ow!  _ Shit! _ ”

Mahreen and Micha burst into hysterics as Jo flicks her napkin out of her lap and dips it into her water glass, pressing the damp cloth to the heel of Derek’s thumb and the top of his wrist.

“ _ Thank you _ , Jo,” Derek hissed through a grin, before waving the girls off, “but seriously, I could just walk away from this table, right now. Leave you all in suspense.”

“No~~!” Micha said, the word bubbling through her giggles, “Don’t do that, Der! I wanna know what the famous ice-man said!” She tried to say more, but she was laughing too hard to get a deep enough breath, and it all turned into wheezing chuffs. She folded her hands over her head, shoulders shaking against the table top.

Mahreen rubbed Micha’s back, “Hockey-man, girl-- _ hockey _ .”

Jo glowered at them both for a split-second before she broke into her own embarrassed smile. “Oh jesus, my ladies!”

Derek mopped up his spilled coffee while the trio settled back into their seats, rubbing napkins self-consciously over their laps and dabbing at their lips carefully. Well, Mahreen and Jo were being careful, Micha was without make-up and scrubbed her spittle away while still laughing and trying to cover it up with a cough. Derek made a small show of wiping off his seat, and the place at the table in front of him, as well as straightening all his utensils while the girls stifled their snorts before sitting himself down and cracking his neck.

“So --as it turns out, Jaguars made for the  _ best  _ pranks…”

 

Derek ditched team dinner on Thursday. They’d had “team dinner” almost everyday for two weeks, and honestly, Derek was getting to be a little over the  _ togetherness _ . He loved his team, and he could spend weeks on end chilling with Chris, especially if they got a chance to spend some beach time in California, or go to Derek’s neck of New York City, doing all the touristy crap that Derek loved to rag on the way true New Yorkers always  _ did _ , but were unashamedly proud of. The sophomore lent himself to a brief moment of imagining himself visiting with his perpetually chipper teammate at either of their homes, walking together, sharing meals, hugging and taking goofy photos in front of buildings or half-buried in sand. Quiet conversations in the dark across inches of distance separating their bodies as they snuck under sheets, sharing secrets and dreams.

Derek reeled himself back in.

He was not, nor would he  _ ever  _ date Chowder.

Not because he wouldn’t love to, Chowder was too perfect for the world and had an ass to match like a dark horse contender from the left-field, but because Chowder was currently quite happy where he was. With Caitlin. And straight.

Probably.

Derek groaned, rubbing his sinuses with strong fingers as images of Dex --not straight, not narrow-- beautiful, infuriating, and goddamn inscrutable Dex came unbidden to his mind.

“I can smell your brain burning,” said Mahreen, her tray clicking against the tabletop as she set it down, her massive salad plate, piled high from the organics bar and coated in a drizzle of something that smelled like ginger and spices. “Classes? Or Dex?”

“Chowder,” he replied.

“Ah, Dex then,” she said back, popping her knuckles and settling a knowing gaze over his scowl.

Derek raised his chin, tilting his brows into a classically disinterested furrow. “I was imagining what it would be like to take Chowder out on the town in New York-- and got distracted by calculating if I had enough money on my fare card to run from Caitlin fast enough when she found out I'd eloped with her man.”

“Nowhere would be far enough!” The pair intoned, scowling at each other with cartoonish frowns in imitation of a single conversation they'd had with the girl herself about such a matter. She had been glistening in sweat from practice, chest heaving with breath after breath after an hour of punishing sprints and squats followed by drilling, drilling, drilling each set of moves into her team’s muscle memory with exacting perfection. She had been incandescent with certainty that any mysterious interloper would be caught, it seemed almost as if the tips of her honey colored hair would catch Sparks of flame and ignite. Her face had turned to Derek then, and with an terrifying grin, told him in no uncertain terms that he would help hide the body. He had nodded, and took two careful steps back as she and her team “Big” left for their showers.

She and Chowder shared their strange affliction for becoming intense on their playing fields. Derek had been unaware of that, until then. 

Mahreen chuckled softly, and took a massive forkful of salad into her mouth to chew. She skillfully avoided choking with sorcery-like grace. She didn't smudge her lipstick. “So how did that thought get you to Dex?”

Damn her.

“I wouldn't date Chowder because of Cait,” he said, straightening up in as clear an indicator as he could that this conversation didn't bother him. “But more importantly, I can't date him because I'm pretty sure he's straight.”

“But?”

“But I was totally wrong about Dex! Not only is Dex Bi --who is bi anymore? Really, is it nineteen eightysix?-- He prefers guys?! And I have never more thought that someone was straight!”

“You were also pretty sure he was super bigoted.”

“Yeah.”

“And now you're wondering if maybe you're wrong about Chowder, too?”

“No! Chowder and I discussed this as freshmen when he thought he might have a crush on Bitty!” Derek froze, his whole body seizing up as green eyes flicked to Mahreen’s own wide-eyed gaze.

She began moving again in the way of old, worn electrics, slowly and with tiny hiccups. She finished chewing, swallowed slowly, then with hardly a crack, said, “And what was the conclusion from that conversation?”

“That he has a mother complex that Caitlin does not fulfill, but he would feel weird kissing Bitty and other boys.”

“You found this out by kissing him?”

“No! We discussed it, like rational people who are not high schoolers.”

They sat for a moment, Derek’s throat tightening with every passing second.

“Am I sworn to secrecy?”

“Yes, please,” Derek said, pleadingly. “It's not like I'm ashamed, and Chowder isn't either, but if Bitty found out, and Bitty would find out, then Chowder might actually die of embarrassment or blood loss from how much of it would end up in his face.”

Mahreen smirked, “That's a thought.”

Almost simultaneously, their phones began to buzz. Mahreen's a tinny saxophone from her purse, Derek's a rough recording of Holster and Shitty shouting obscenities during a kegster from the end of the last school year. Derek scrambled for his phone, dropped it, and shut it off just before recorded Holster whooped, “FUU~UCK THE LAX BROS!” Around them, a few people were glaring from over their plates, a few more were training their heads around to glower at the windows, as if the massive blonde was lurking outside.

Mahreen snorted, “That’s my news alert. Weekly Incarnate special.”

“Mine, too.”

“Do you have the one that tries to verify all of the stories B-types have given out?”

“Mahreen, I have  _ three.  _ And most of them come to the same conclusion: not enough details to know for sure.”

She rolled her pretty eyes, “Don’t rain on my parade,  _ mere laal _ .”

Derek unlocked his phone and pulled up his alerts and messages. He deleted a few notifications that looked boring -- snapchat and vine updates, some junk e-mails -- then tapped his way into his news feed. Right up top was a gif of Bad Bob, seated at a clean kitchen table, dopey grin blooming across his face even as the interviewers across from him leaned back, arms raising. Then it looped back and repeated. The caption for the article was the same as the blocky white script at the bottom.

_ *Reporters learn that even among legends there are myths* _

Derek’s eyes stalled at the bold type, then he tuned out the noise of the dining hall, eagerly devouring the information.

_ Office AMA with Bad Bob Zimmermann: _

_ Talking to one of the oldest known B-types --or rather, Incarnates-- currently alive is something one has little idea of how to prepare for. How can you prepare for an interview where the number of viable subjects is near limitless? Do you keep it simple, or go as in-depth as they will allow, and miss a few of your planned avenues of thought? Any iteration of plan fails to work in face of action. _

_ So I didn’t plan anything at all.  _

_ We travelled to Bad Bob’s backyard ice rink for our interview, a humble facility made of a cleared concrete area where water is gathered to turn into ice during the winter freezes. There was no natural snow on the ground, but our breath was escaping from our mouths in chilly clouds. Bad Bob was here, doing lazy loops on the scratched up surface, seemingly oblivious to our presence, huddled over our coffee and cocoa. _

**_HM: Hey Bob_ **

**_Bad Bob: Hey everybody, doing alright outside in Canada?_ **

**_HM: Haha._ **

_ We introduced the crew, and Bob shook our hands jovially. _

**_HM: So, we sent a suggestion box through the office with three rules: if a question gets put in more than three times we had to ask it. We can’t ask anything we would be ashamed of asking our priest or grandmother or a new boss. We could not put in anything we’ve heard an answer for before._ **

**_Bad Bob: Oh this should be interesting!_ **

**_HM: Sure, if you’re partial to ADHD squirrels making a mess in the office._ **

**_Bad Bob: My office is a hockey rink, so that actually sounds like a pretty damn good day to me._ **

**_HM: Okay, first thing the office ladies want to know - have you ever been a woman?_ **

**_Bad Bob: Not in my memory, but an old friend of mine says that I was once. And that I spent a quarter of that life as a queer pirate captain. For a given definition of ‘pirate’ anyway._ **

**_HM: Another one from the ladies: have you ever been a royal?_ **

**_Bad Bob: *snort* a royal GUARD, sure._ **

**_HM: Follow up: you have known royals?_ **

**_Bad Bob: I know another Incarnate who, in my memory, was royal or in the nobility in almost every one of his incarnations. I know another who has spent most of his lives on street corners panhandling. He got worse after prescription drugs became a thing._ **

**_HM: I have so many questions I want to ask about that guy, but I don’t actually get to choose these questions. Is Ice Hockey the first time you’ve played a sport professionally?_ **

**_Bad Bob: Yes._ **

**_HM: Wow, short answer._ **

**_Bad Bob: I was much more likely to be in a war than playing war games, fellas. The idea of an organized sport is still a little odd to me._ **

**_HM: Good segue! What famous pieces of history do you, individually remember taking part in?_ **

**_Bad Bob: I’ve lived through a lot of wars. A few in Ancient China and Sumeria, I remember walking through an Egyptian palace in a time that couldn’t have been later than twelve-hundred BC, but the first thing most people will recognize is that I was in Alexander the Great’s army. I also took part in the Mongol Conquests with Ghengis Kahn. I was in Hannibal Barka’s army, and the hundred years war. I was a samurai during Japan’s Kamakura period --which was a very short gap for me, considering the Mongol empire that I fought was the one a few decades prior I was building. My son Jack recently found out I fought in the American Revolution._ **

**_HM: Woah- how did that feel?_ **

**_Bad Bob: The answer is not to think about it, usually._ **

**_HM: Next question -- is --oh my god I’m going to kill Sarah for making me ask this one-- is it more common to remain hetrosexual during each live or to be bisexual across them all?_ **

**_Bad Bob: Ha! Actually, most who’ve spoken to me about it are either full bisexual, or are attracted to a particular sex or gender no matter what their own currently is. It tends to be the younger ones who stick to heteronormativity._ **

**_HM: Is there any way to contact other B-types?_ **

**_Bad Bob: Until recently? Not really. And of course, we can’t recognize each other through telecommunications the way we can when we’re talking face-to-face, or when we’re near one another, so there is the aspect of ‘are you who you say you are?’ now that we have some websites set up. Of course, the Smithsonian has set up a communication hub for the positively tested of us, but my old-school group of friends prefers the older way of doing things._ **

**_HM: Okay, off script question: What is the older way of doing things, and please don’t say ‘wait until we bump into each other’._ **

**_Bad Bob: Well, we wait until we bump into each other! But that’s not really the end of the story. We tend to work in similar fields, or have similar interests, so we find each other at jobs, and social clubs, or, if we’re unlucky, battlefields. Bumping into each other isn’t as uncommon as you think, especially if you’re bound as a pair or in a group._ **

_ At this point, the cold was really getting to me. Hot cocoa notwisthstanding. I asked him what being ‘bound’ was with chattering teeth. Graciously, he offered to walk us inside, and answered the question as we traversed through the snow in the lovely wooded area. _

**_Bad Bob: Being bound is where the legend of soul-mates comes from._ **

_ Selena, our instagram girl genius, fell into the snow and I spilled my drink all down Mr. Zimmermann’s jacket. _

**_Bad Bob: Easy-on, fellas! You’re alright, you’re alright! Being bound isn’t exactly rare, and it’s not really romantic, the way some people imagine, it is more of a guarantee that you’ll meet someone if you’re both alive._ **

**_Selena: But it can be romantic, can’t it?_ **

**_HM: Selena!_ **

**_Bad Bob: Sure, sure, how do you think the soul-mate thing became such a romantic trope? I mean, the Egyptians and the Grecians really put the legend down to pass along in time, but they had the idea from probably the most iconic bound-pair in existence, who at more than one point lived and rules in both of those civilizations. If you believe they exist at all. Between those two, one is Incarnate, the other is a sleeper, and it is a tragedy of one-sided romance all-around if you ask me._ **

_ We reach the large house at the top of the hill and Bad Bob guides us through a large mudroom where we shed our coats and boots, directly into a bright, friendly kitchen done up in chrome and Falconer’s blue and yellow. We refill our drinks, and continue. _

**_HM: So, do those two really exist?_ **

**_Bad Bob: Hm?_ **

**_HM: The soul-mates?_ **

**_Bad Bob: The old ones believe._ **

**_HM: Are you being deliberately vague?_ **

**_Bad Bob grinned roguishly._ **

**_Bad Bob: Absolutely!_ **

Here, the gif from the top of the artical played again.

**_HM: Okay, so Rylie from our office wants to know --_ **

Derek closed the app, hand drifting to his notebooks and his dinner forgotten.

 

The next big meme was tentatively dubbed “and we meet again” and it consisted of two people doing a classic run-hug-spin maneuver in crowded areas. Oftentimes, too crowded to really accommodate such an physical activity and the result was very often someone or something being hilariously knocked over. It’s antithesis was “so we meet again” and involved the similarly crowded areas followed by either amazingly choreographed mock-fights or overly-dramatic posturing that ended in equally over-dramatic sissified slap-fights.

Bad Bob Zimmermann took to linking Ransom and Holster with every single one that made him laugh out loud.

 

January passed, and February began with the chill of the weather in stark contrast to the heat of the rink. The Samwell Men’s Hockey team was on a streak of wins that their competitors were determinedly striving to smash. The Bears from Brown were a strong offensive team, and the checks were hard and thoroughly exhaustive in their repetitiveness.

Derek squared up against the boards and pushed through, Bitty shouting encouragement from the side. The puck was gone again, and Derek had already skated through several shifts, his body ached from shoulder to hip where he’d been slammed against plexiglass. Still, his eyes darted around for hard black rubber as his thighs pushed him across play-roughened ice. He spotted it being slapped across the frost and on its way to Chowder, who slinking down between the pipes and black eyes glittering like two chips of flint.

A shot!

Blocked.

And Dex was wheeling away with the puck on his tape.

He passed to Whiskey with a quick flick of the wrist as Derek slowed to catch his breath while moving back to Chowder hunkered down in the net. The Bears’ rink was nice, smooth ice and clean floors and seats, but it didn’t have the windows that Faber had, so time took on a strange stretching feeling as the period clicked on.

The shift ended with the finishing of the second period of play, and Derek swallowed his tongue as the team made their way to the unfamiliar lockers, his mouth felt dry from his harsh breathing, and the water he was swishing around from his water bottle only helped so much.

“Good movement out there, boys,” Coach Murray said, flicking his eyes from them to his clipboard and back. “Derek, you’re doing especially well at keeping possession of the puck off Bear sticks --but for the love of god, this isn’t a playoff game, please watch for checks! The trainers need to look at you.” The gathered boys slapped at Derek’s shoulders and back, and Chris gave Derek the most enthusiastic thumbs-up Derek had seen since the last time Chowder gave Derek a thumbs-up. Derek listened with half an ear as he stripped off his jersey to let Lardo and the trainers look at his ribs and assess if the bruises he felt heating up his side were more than the dark red patches they appeared, and if the red would be worse than black, blue, and green come monday at school. 

Lardo grimaced at the discolored skin along Derek’s side. He split and shit-eating grin at her and she shoved one small but deceptively strong hand into his sweaty curls and shoved him. “What do you think, Louis?”

“I don’t think he should be in the rest of the game. This isn’t broken, but he takes any more hard hits and I can’t say they wouldn’t go home that way.”

“Louis! I thought we were buddies!” Derek pouted at the trainer, in his khakis and samwell red polo, and tried to stamp down on the disquiet crawling up his throat. “We only have one more period, man, I’ll be on the ice like, four minutes tops! How often can I get hit in that time?”

“A lot,” Louis and Lardo chimed in unison.

Derek groaned. “C’mon, Lards. You know that we can’t really afford to lose the second line defense in this game. They’re hitting way too hard out there!”

“That’s exactly  _ why _ we’re losing the second line out there! Did you forget how to skate fast or something, Nursey? You practice with Bitty, you know.”

Bitty, for his part had fought through the game admirably. He’d taken several harsh checks, but had pushed himself up on trembling skates and got himself moving without exception. He was paying for it now, Derek glanced over at the tiny blonde’s red face, huffing and puffing with his head tilted back into the green lockerspace behind him. Bitty had a small paper cup of water in his hand, and the tremors that would have violently spilled his drink at the beginning of the year previous barely seemed worse than the shaking of Derek’s own shivering, exhausted, muscles.

Pain lanced through his side, “Ow, fuck, Louis!”

“Yup, nope, you’re out this week, and scratched for Monday’s practice, too.”

“WHAT? Louis!”

“ _ Chill _ ,” Lous snarked.

Dex’s hand flashed out across the distance between them and fiercely slashed over Derek’s head, grazing over his sweat-tangled curls. “Shut up, Nursey!  _ I’ll take care of our line!  _ If you go out again you’re going to get a broken rib and then you’ll be out almost the rest of the season --the  _ whole _ season if we don’t make playoffs! Suck up the scratch.”

Derek looked at the half-grown man ahead of him, citron eyes sparking acid, spite, and…

_ Care? _

Derek floated down the corridor back to the side of the ice in a haze. The second line took point for the tail end of the period, and Derek watched and cheered as hard as he could while keeping an eye on Dex, his jersey flashing in and out among various green jerseys and snapping around hair-pin turns on his skates.

_ I am so fucked,  _ he thought to himself for, well, the number seemed unfathomable now. But it had been a prevalent feeling for a long, long time.

 

They left with a win against the Bears. Barely, but it was sweet.

 

Derek’s bruises were proving extremely persistent, sticking around through the week, and only really showing signs of slowing down just before the next weekend. Jo had cooed and oohed and ahhed appropriately for the pain and suffering he’d noticed after the game and hit him especially hard after the bus ride home. She had called him up every day to check in with a sweet hello and offer to bring him an ice-pack or to Netflix and  _ actually _ chill. She gave him a heating pad, too, to borrow.

“What are we doing on Friday?” Jo asked, lounging across Derek’s bed, a textbook propped up in front of her and her highlighter lazily drifting across the page picking out bolded words and a few section toppers.

“I have a game,” Derek said, his own readings out in front of him. “Then the boys are having a birthday party for me on Sunday.”

“But that’s Valentines day!” Jo said, shooting Derek a sharp look and pouting hard.

“Yeah, it is. That’s my birthday. Do you want to come? I’m inviting Mahreen for sure, but I’m not sure if Micha can make it, she has some conference out of town?”

“She told me about that,” Jo said, rolling over, “For her music frat, right?” Derek nodded.

Jo sprawled on her back, limp wrists to either side of her head, body stretching as one sinuous line of muscle wrapped in neat layers of fleece and wool. “What time?”

“Seven until whenever.”

“Do you have any plans for before then?”

“Not really?”

Jo nodded, a quick jerk of her head, flicking her long hair over the foot of the bed and then spinning back onto her stomach. “Do you want to do lunch before it, then? Maybe a movie?”

Derek grinned, “I promised the guys I’d see Deadpool with them at the midnight release after our game, but if you have another one in mind…”

“Low-key roast of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?”

“Deal,” Derek said, holding a fist knuckles-out. Jo yanked his wrist until he half-tripped out of his desk chair to bounce on the stiff mattress beside her and spend the rest of their Wednesday evening getting none of their studying done.

 

Friday’s game was nuts -- Though the checks were much less savage, Derek was still tender enough to feel each dearly, leaving their second line all but immobile on the side. Holster and Rans, Samwell Men’s Hockey wheeled into another tough win by sending in Whiskey and Tango too early and having a pleasantly surprising streak of synchronization. It was beautiful and sent Ransom and Holster into hysterical spastic fits of helmet-slaps and glove-bumps. 

That evening at the theater in town the co-captains bought both of their tickets, as well as Chow’s and Mr. Roger’s, with a promise to do more if the team made playoffs in a month. Derek shuddered, a pale freckled arm slung over his shoulders, slipping down as the rowdy gaggle whooped and hollered in the parking lot and leaving a trail of electric tingles down his traps and across the backs of his arms. Holster wriggled into sight between Bitty and Rans, scooping a grinning redhead away and throwing the trim young man onto his shoulder to start a bride-carry run to the doors. Him and Dex versus Rans and Lardo who were trailing behind in the impromptu competition. 

Afterwords, Derek texted Mahreen to gloat about the movie, and another to the group chat between them, Micha, and Jo to gloat some more. The team stumbled into the Haus at nearly three AM, beyond exhausted, and trailing in thudding steps up creaking stairs and bumping into creaking walls.

“‘Night, Chowder, Nurse,” yawned Dex, stretching long limbs that burned in the yellow street light, beaming in from the upper hall window. “See you in the morning.”

“Sure, bro,” Derek replied, a tense unease threatening his chill aloof. Dex’s hand was clasped in another, equally pale, tugging him away to the other end of the upper landing, to the upstairs bathroom and the even creakier stairs to the attic.

“‘N-n-n-~” Chowder yawned so loud his jaw cracked, “night, bros. ‘Night, captains.” The tall boy thumped into the door jamb and his head drooped dangerously. Derek stepped forward, glad for something to take his brain off the image of those entwined, pale fingers, one set spotted and flushed with blood from the evening chill, the other still holding on to the faintest traces of golden summer.

The swell of sickness that swept him up would be perfect backing for a poem, but for the life of him, Derek couldn’t even begin a line.

“Hang on, Hols,” Dex said, pulling his and Holster’s hands apart. “I got this, Nurse, go brush your teeth. You can use Chris’ toothbrush, he won’t mind.” And Derek’s chest seized to see Poindexter carefully knock heads with Chris, rolling the other up again with gentle surety, and shuffling deadweight arms over his shoulders to pick up the sleepy goalie under his knees. He bounced the other once, to hike him onto a hip, then, effortlessly, nudged open the door across from Bitty’s with his toe and slunk into the darkness to deposit the other on the bed. Other shuffling and rustling sounds said that he may even be putting their friend under his covers, or changing his clothes.

_ Oh so callus are your kindnesses, _

_ to never include me. _

A hand took Derek’s elbow and he shot out of his half-asleep reverie.

“Woah, Holster, sup, bro?”

Holster, huge, broad, blonde, and at least as used to making himself smaller as Derek was himself, was shifting from toe to toe and curled into himself. His shoulders pulled in near his ears and elbows close in to his waist.

“Hey, bro...uh….we cool? Chill?”

_ What? Oh fuck no --please please no…  _ “...about what, bro? We’re cool,” Derek replied.

Holster groaned, pushing one huge hand through his hair, then met Derek’s eyes. The sympathy was real, and it was terrible. “About Dex, bro. I know I’m kind of...and you, before that…”

“Haha, bro,” Derek chuckled, “way to be vague.” icy claws curled over Derek’s ribs, wiggling into his flesh harsher than the chilly wind outside. “But I hear you, and it’s chill --you can’t call dibs on a person, bro. No breach of bro code, I promise.”

“Still a solid hit against ‘Got your back’ code, though. I didn’t even think to ask you if me and Dex hooking up--”

_ \--Please god, if you love me or any other person with unrequited feelings end this conversation quickly-- _

“bothered you before I was hilt deep without a --uh...sorry bro-- but...you know I never meant to hurt you, right?”

“Would you stop seeing him if it did?”

Derek had absolute control over his voice, so it didn’t waver --but he still didn’t mean to snap. He dared a glance up at Holster, and the other’s horrified face. Surely Holster wasn’t that mortified by his own behavior? Some of that broken-hearted, wide-eyed terror was just the boisterous man’s usual over-the-top expressiveness?

“Oh, God, Derek, _ I’m so sorry _ .” The words were spoken in a tight whisper, barely audible over the quiet shuffling inside Chowder’s room. Oily guilt slithered down Derek’s spine in a long drip of shame.

“Bro, bro,” Derek said, knocking an elbow into the senior, “It’s chill. Don’t give me that face!” It really, really wasn’t, but that wasn’t Holster’s fault. It wasn’t Dex’s either. “He doesn’t like me like that, and I would rather you both be happy.”

Holster shifted nervously, “But you  _ aren’t _ happy, Derek.”

“There was no way I was going to be, Hols. He  _ doesn’t like me _ . We’re barely  _ friends _ .”

Holster cringed, and Derek’s throat swelled with the emotions trying to choke him, and reached out. His hands grabbed the Co-captain’s broad shoulders, and reeled the taller into a hug that, after a split-second of awkward indecision, was returned with nothing short of a vengence.

“What did I walk in on?” asked Dex from Chris’ doorway.

“Nothin’ Dex, c’mon, let’s go to bed.”

Hols wiped fat tears off his cheeks with the end of his sleeve, and Dex took the other hand. “You’re sure?” His eyes glittered with concern, soft and melting --or was that Derek?-- and it couldn’t hurt any worse until it did. Dex leaned in and drew Holster down with one hand around the back of the other’s neck.

And kissed the red-scrubbed tear-tracks in gentle blessings.

_ I do not need them _

_ surely I do not. _

_ Those ever-pumping bellows _

_ pushing red in endless circuits ‘round. _

_ I do not need them _

_ and their deep Ba-thump. _

_ Those soothing sounds and whispers _

_ running more than heat and blood and such. _

_ I do not need them _

_ any of the four _

_ atriums or ventricles _

_ breaking into ruins by your smile. _

_ Ow. _

Dex pulled the taller man away, towards the attic stairs, softly asking if Ransom was okay with Dex staying the night. Holster’s replies were too quiet and too far away for Derek to hear, standing by the window at the opposite end of the landing as he was. Sour envy roiled through his guts, cramping his fingers into fists over his stomach as Derek watched the pair disappear up the stairs hand in hand.

Slowly, deliberately, Derek entered Chris’ room, the soft snuffling from the bed indicating that Chris was happily dozing, just awake enough to register his night’s bed-companion stripping off his shirt and pants before sliding under a Sharks-teal comforter. Immediately, Derek was glommed onto, Chris wrapping his long arms and legs all around him, and a sleepy voice muttered, “Night, Nursey.”

“Mm-hmm,” Derek replied, the edge of a whimper breaking through the tail end. He twisted away, pulling Chris’ arm over his waist to tuck himself in and breathe for a few minutes. No dice. Chowder sniffed out Derek’s discomfort like a service dog sniffing out the beginnings of a panic attack, and with a strength that sent Derek’s heart into painful flutters, turned the other back around.

Green eyes met black, and Derek cracked a smile that felt like shards of glass had taken up residence in his mouth. It was so dark in Chowder’s room that he could barely see more than his goalie’s most vague outline, but no one needed lights on to know how Chowder felt about anything. “Talk to me,” said Chowder, voice deep and rough with sleep he hadn’t gotten yet, velvety and intense as it was mid-game.

“I knew it was going to hurt, Chow--when they started to come out to the team, but I didn’t think it would be that bad. I’m --uh--I’m starting to think I was maybe really wrong about that?”

“Jack and Bitty have been out to us for nearly a month,” Chris replied.

“Dex and Holster,” Derek replied. His eyes prickled, but he wasn’t crying. It was a stupid thing to cry over, anyway. It wasn't like the outcome was even slightly unexpected. He’d been bracing for impact since before classes started up. A voice that sounded like a strange combination of Shitty, Mahreen, and his freshman year psychology professor all hissed at him that he should probably let himself cry --there were all sorts of benefits to letting oneself engage in the process of emotional catharsis--but Derek swallowed them all back. “They’ve been fucking all semester. I….walked in on them.”

Chris inhaled sharply, then slowly moved to crush Derek into himself, pulling the darker boy away from the edge of the mattress and rolling until he flipped all the way over into the wall-side of the bed. Covers were yanked around until the asian was happy, and Derek was snuggled up half-on-top and burritoed in soft warmth.

“I’ll kill Hols. I don’t care if he’s our captain --we have a spare,” he muttered. Derek thumped him as best he could with an arm trapped in close to their bodies by the blanket. It was mostly a tap with the inner side of his elbow.

They lay for a few minutes, and Derek was just convincing himself Chowder was asleep when the other spoke again. Or rather, began to hum.

The melody was soft, slightly a-tonal, like it didn’t fit quite right on the pentatonic scale, and as Chris hummed he faded in and out, like he didn’t quite remember some of the lines, and jumped right back in where his memory picked back up. It was lovely - soft and soothing and simple enough. After another few minutes, the refrain had repeated enough for Derek to half-hum along. They hummed it together until Derek stopped stuttering his hums through his trembling lip and his breath caught up enough that he didn’t feel awful rubbing his gummy eyes onto Chowder’s wet shoulder and chest.

“That’s a nice song,” Derek croaked.

“Thanks. G’night, Der.”

“‘Night, Chris.”

 

Derek walked Jo up the Haus’ front steps on Sunday afternoon, where the dim stomping from inside and various shouted calls inside indicated that clean-up for the Haus party was in full disaster-mode. It happened almost every time. Everybody had a few tasks that, individually, didn’t take that much time to do and so were blown off for later. Then, ‘later’ comes. Tasks that should have been handled days ago suddenly loom like giants over pathetic Hockey-Jacks, and their beanstalks of responsibility seem entirely too high to climb.

Of course, then Lardo and Bitty wrangle the captains from their rose-tinting goggles and push the Haus into something resembling order. There will be a few items out of order, but not enough for Bitty to give anyone sad disappointed looks, and everything will go smoothly.

The door slammed open with a bang, releasing Ransom onto the front porch, beautiful face twisted up but his glare shifting through surprise and into a grin in the span of a second. He leaned back through the door, Derek’s eyes drawn down his torso to where a sliver of dark skin was exposed under the hem of his SMH hoodie. “The Birthday Boy has arrived!” he shouted. A series of whoops chorused back.

Derek grinned. “Woah, you know you don’t need to fuss so much about my birthday, yeah?” he said, shaking off Jo’s hand and wrapping his arms around the senior. They thumped each other’s backs in loud slaps, and Ransom ushered them into the Haus and quickly through to the back.

In the rush past the kitchen Derek was briefly waylaid by a bright smear of red, and Derek’s arm was jerked as Jo froze, only to be dragged forward again by Ransom’s momentum.

“Bro, what was  _ that _ ?”

“That was romantic, is what it was,” Jo cooed. “Is someone bringing their girlfriend over?”

They all trotted across the threshold to the back door and Ransom stopped, “Nah, that was for one of the guys on our team. His boyfriend is wicked overzealous.”

Derek snorted -- _ what did Jack do? Buy out all the roses at the wholesale center?  _ “The entire kitchen looks like the valentine’s section of Hallmark thew up all over it. Does Bits love it?”

“Nothing short of five comments on using it for a youtube background. Or a kitchen tour-- apparently his long-time followers want one for the Haus kitchen, because it isn’t the same as his mom’s kitchen in Georgia.”

Derek hmm’ed thoughfully, “I thought there’d be more.”

“--all in the first two minutes.”

“That’s more like it,” Derek said, and Ransom shrugged his beautifully broad shoulders. 

The taller young man’s lip quirked into a crooked smile, “Who’s this, Nursey?”

Derek pulled Jo into a side-hug, and felt her thin shoulders squeeze into his side. “Hi!” she said, cheerfully throwing forward her hand, “I’m Jo. Der and I had a class together last semester?”

Ransom’s wafer-thin grin didn’t so much as twitch, “Are you one of his Angels?” Jo positively beamed.

“Well, I like to think I’m pretty amazing!”

“So which are you? Camerion Diaz, Lucy Liu, or Drew Barrymore?”

Jo’s head tilted, “Come again?”

Derek rolled his eyes, “They called you and the girls ‘Derek’s Angels’ after some sevendy’s show that spawned a nineties movie. And for your information,  _ co-captain _ , she is definitely Cameron Diaz.”

“ _ Oooh _ , like  _ Charlie’s Angels _ ! Nice --wait, does that make Micha Drew Barrymore?”

“Obviously.”

“Oh my god, Derek!” Jo giggled hard enough to snort, and slapped Derek’s shoulder. A moment later, Bitty’s head poked out the back door.

“Hey ya’ll --Miss Jo, do you mind helpin’ me out in the Kitchen? I know you’re a guest and all, but --Well, I’m banking on traditional values of the elder generation having made you at least marginally more competent than the rest of your esteemed hosts.”

Jo blinked up to Derek, who cleared up introductions.

“Jo, this is Bitty, Bitty--Jo. Bitty is one of our first-line forwards, and the Haus mom. Jo is Cameron Diaz.”

“From Derek’s Angels,” she finished.

“Any good at not letting something burn on the stove?”

“World class at asking my mom if it’s too brown yet.”

“You’ll do. Sorry, Nursey!”

Jo’s apologetic smile vanished back into the warmth of the house. For several moments, Derek stood next to his captain, breathing thin clouds into the crisp, clear air.

Derek leaned in, “You okay?”

Ransom wilted, “Not on your birthday, little broham.”

The elder leaned onto Derek, tucking one of his shoulders into an offered body and ducking into a warm neck with a sigh.

“Bad day?”

“Bad weekend. I’m not ready to talk about it, but...if I’m gonna talk about it, I want to talk about it with you.”

Something Derek left behind at the beginning of winter break, in a room whose bleak barrenness was destroyed by swathes of laundry draped and swaddled and hung from every surface and the whirl-wind of heat that made it so had so suddenly swept Derek away into a blue truck and back home. Derek’s face heated, and he put both arms up around Justin, over his shoulder and around the trim waist, “What about Holster?”

“Seriously?” said Ransom. Moist warm breath puffed under Derek’s ear, sending heated sparks down his spine, tingling across his sides and settling into his hips, “fuck Holster right now, bro.”

_ That’s not good. _

 

The mini-kegster started off with hardly a hitch. There was some oddity in that Derek got the distinct feeling that Ransom wasn’t perhaps  _ avoiding _ Holster so much as giving Holster a blisteringly unnoticed cold shoulder. This was compounded by the fact that Holster’s nearly undivided attention was on Dex, which Derek wanted to see as little of as possible, as it was pretty clear what Holster’s intentions with the red-head were. Of course, Chowder wanted to hang out with  _ both  _ of his best friends, forcing all four d-men into proximity and…

Well, Dex was just about the only truly comfortable person there, by either honest ignorance or willful blindness.

After finishing whatever magic Bitty had concocted in the kitchen, they were joined by Jo, who was more fidgety and agitated with each passing hour. Derek understood, she didn’t know anyone other than him and the fashionably late Mahreen, and the other girl had glared through her lashes as Portman stole her arm and attention, mostly to pout at the lack of Holster’s, which remained fully on Dex. Not that people weren’t trying to interact with Jo, more than one of the other hockey players was happy to engage her in conversation, but she kept squeezing in closer to Derek, and any inch he put between them was soon eaten up as she squeezed in again.

Mid-way through the evening, Derek came to a sad conclusion: Derek didn’t have this much high school drama when he was _ in  _ high school. There was plenty of ‘script and weed trade, of course, among the youth of the obnoxiously wealthy, but none of the relationship drama that felt at home in every single after school special that exists. Probably because Andover was the sort of old-school boarding school that had a ‘sister school’ instead of going co-ed during the women’s revolution.

Well, Andover boys would sneak out, if they were feeling particularly bored and daring, but in a small, insular world like Andover, surrounded by a picturesque little town with nothing better to do than what you already could at your exceedingly well-supplied dorm, why would you?

Lardo and Bitty were smashed by seven. Ransom following not long after and was petulantly stubborn with it, refusing to budge from Derek’s side, creating the stiffest shove-of-war contest with Jo that Derek had ever played middle-participant to. Portman was right there with him and gummed up all over Mahreen, none too happy wrapped up over her glass of water and listening to his greasy voice complaining as the weasley english major got steadily more intoxicated.

Unaffected by the misery in the living room, the team was basking in the scent of pie and roses, tossing chocolates from increasing distances into each other’s mouths for ever more ridiculous bets of pride and honor. Bitty tottered on his feet when he brought over a, frankly ridiculous, birthday cupcake spread for Derek.

It was a literal tower of cupcakes, five layers high, each with what may have been a real rose placed on top of the icing. It was a valentines monstrosity that…

Well, it was cliche as fuck.

Derek loved it instantly, and something black and terrible gripped his heart to think that his friends were not going to notice how much through their intoxication and that Bitty was the only one really looking at him to see his reaction to the romantic strop the birthday boy had been presented with. The team piled into the living room, the backyard was  _ far  _ too cold to tolerate, and demanded birthday candles.

Holster pulled Dex and Chowder up just as everyone began to sing Happy Birthday, and Derek’s slowly building bubble of excitement exploded as Dex  _ looked  _ at him.

Oh, Derek was  _ so  _ goddamn  _ fucked _ .

The dimmed lights and flickering yellow flames of candles put fairy lights into Dex’s eyes, just a shade too shallow to be the lights Derek imaged they might be, if Dex ever got over whatever it was that made him hate Derek so damn badly. The kicker though, was the smile. Dex’s tiny barely-there smile made so warm in candlelight, sending sticky heat and want straight into Derek’s belly. Dex was smiling at Derek.

Derek would suffer a hundred awkward nights of parties like this if they all ended with Dex’s warm amber-golden-poison colored eyes looking at him like that, with Dex’s softest smile.

_ Loveliness is a dying thing, _

_ mine, not yours. _

_ It kills me in millimeters, _

_ not inches. _

_ And with every moment, _

_ I creep to tomb. _

Dex and Chowder with Holster’s help took the two minutes provided by the birthday song to spread the cupcakes with candles all over the living room, kitchen and staircase, and the team howled the end of the song as Derek, glaring playfully, took as deep a breath as he could manage, cheeks puffed out and everything. Derek stalked over to the TV stand, and blew out two cupcakes, then moved to the next set being held by Ollie and Wicky, and blew out those, then all the other cupcakes in the Haus all on the single big breath.

He was left searching for the last two for a good thirty seconds, the last of his breath burning in his chest and growing quickly from a tingling sting to a true inferno. Derek re-entered the living room, eyes scanning frantically for the last little lights, and found them, held up by Chowder and Dex. The smile wobbled across his mouth, and Dex strode up to his fellow frogs in three long steps. He leaned down, blew out the candles, then grinned, and hugged them both --smearing icing over all thee. Chowder screeched and giggled, and Dex burst into unholy cursing the likes of which Derek was too busy laughing at to appreciate.

Derek scooped icing off of another cupcake and smeared it over Ransom’s face, the stark contrast between the pale pink sugar and Justin’s dark skin bubbled hysterical giggles out of Derek’s chest. The senior’s mouth was an ‘oh’ of surprise, and Derek pushed a glob of sugar in, and then it was  _ on _ . For  _ everybody _ .

Icing and cake were being pushed at faces, to crush against smiling cheeks and  _ finally  _ Derek wasn’t pressed between two other stressed out students vying for his attention, and he could just  _ smear cake  _ all over Dex’s stupid red hair, and put his fingers in Justin’s mouth and kiss it off Jo’s cheek and onto Mahreen’s.

Fifteen minutes of chaos.

And then  _ something  _ happened in the kitchen and Bitty began the process of kicking everyone out into the chilly evening with a gracious southern smile and a twanging goodnight. Derek was ready to step in for cleaning up the sugar covered living area with the tadpoles, but got bumped out the door by Holster, murmuring an excuse about the clock not hitting midnight for another thirty minutes and to enjoy it while he could.

Which is how Derek found himself arm and arm with Jo, her dark hair curling in gentle waves and somewhat mussed by the last bout of activity at the party. He had a bouquet in one arm, used by Bitty to give him ‘birthday spankings’ and then passed off to him just before Jo had led him out the door. Stiffly, Derek offered it to his companion.

“Thanks,” Jo said, smiling. For a moment, Derek’s eyes were drawn to the sparse freckles on her nose, blinking like sunspots on her skin from the harsh light of the streetlamp as they meandered their way back to campus through the neighborhood. Derek had a fleeting thought that he ought to walk her back to her dorm, rather than invite her up, but it was all chill…. _ right _ ?

Derek looked at her, fashionable knit hat pulled over the delicate shells of her ears, perky nose going red in the cold.

Not the  _ right  _ red. Not the  _ right  _ freckles. Not the  _ right  _ hat.

But good enough, right?

“Can I come up to your room, babe?” Jo asked, nuzzling into the flowers.

_ Yeah, good enough. _

They walked in silence, Jo’s gloved hand soft in Derek’s, gently tugging with each off-sync step.

Derek held open the door for her at his dorm, and she looped their arms on the way to the elevators. “I wore something nice,” Jo whispered on the way up, the sensation of moving while staying still, warmth all up his side from the body next to his, and the breathy sigh of words all building into a sensation like the elevator was a strange liminal space. Derek knew he wasn’t really into the idea of bringing Jo in for a good time, he was exhausted after most of a day spent with others and performing smiles and jokes and joy for the team, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue to do so all night. Still, the evening’s end seemed undeniable. A situation oncoming that Derek could see, hear, and smell, but lacked the willpower to stop.

Derek unlocked his door, and Jo followed him inside with a girlish hop.

The room wasn’t as bare as it had been before the holiday break -- Derek had scoured Boston’s music shops for unplayable, but aesthetic records and album covers to pin up with some of Lardo’s direction all over the walls to the right and left. On the back wall he’d gotten Chowder’s help to hang up a large sheet to act like a drape over the head of his bed in a green to match Derek’s own eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was better than a bare box. Jo had been quite fond of the bed drape, saying that it made her feel like a princess. It was shrouded in thick shadows at midnight, and neither he nor Jo reached for the light switch.

The girl pressed Derek bodily up against the door, fluttering kisses over his lips, cheeks, and neck. “Der,” she whispered throatily.

Derek pecked back somewhat unenthusiastically, confident that when they got further along he’d have more of his head in the game.

She dug her hands under his coat, and Derek helpfully shrugged out of it, then began to pull of her layers as he walked her back to the bed in the dark. She sighed into his mouth and let herself be led. The shuffle through the dim was punctuated by the ruffle of falling clothes and clinking zippers. He was down to compression shorts and she to her underwear when she pulled them to a stop.

“Hang on, Der,” she slid out from his loose hold, “Let me get the lamp --I bought these just for tonight, you know. I wanted you to see them.”

“Sexy underwear?” he asked, a dim stirring of arousal finally rousing under his navel. Jo giggled as the lamp clicked on, illuminating her and the room with warm yellows and highlighting the rose color of the bra snug across her chest. Derek’s eyes flicked down without permission. Her underwear was equally red, lacy, and from the set of the fabric under her hip bones, showed a fair amount of bubble ass-cheek.

Derek shuddered excitedly and he reached out to wrap his hands around the red lace, thumbing the frilled edge.

“There’s a bow on the front,” he hissed, squirming to ease the pressure inside his shorts, “Jo, that’s so unfair --I love bows on the front of panties.”

“I know,” Jo replied, flicking her hair over her shoulder, and pushing Derek onto his back. “It’s okay, birthday boy, let me do the work tonight.” Derek chuckled through a sigh and leaned back. Jo grabbed her phone and quickly set up soft, thrumming music through Derek’s bluetooth pill, and she swayed along, rocking her hips to the drumbeat and her hands drifting over his torso. She slinked down to lay on his body and pulled her legs up to sit up again, a strong, sinuous dance.

Derek’s hands pulled up to caress soft, pale skin.

There were no freckles. There were no hard planes of muscle. Derek ruthlessly ignored the frantic wailing in his chest and focused on the heat in his belly and let that guide his roaming hands.

He caressed her soft curves, squeezed the meat of her thighs and ass, let one of his hands grope at her breast and fondle the nipple pebbling up under rough lace. He scooped the cups of her bra down, so her tits pouted over the top, bouncing with her dance. Her small hands took his and cupped them over the air-chilled flesh. Her body was rocking over his crotch, and he could feel the folds of her dampening the fabric separating them. He was so hard in his shorts it  _ hurt _ , and Derek didn’t mind the whine that wobbled through his mouth. “Jo, you’re amazing --your  _ body _ ,” Derek sighed, “How many hours do you spend at the gym, girl, and why didn’t you decide to get paid for it by picking up an athletic scholarship?”

Jo snorted, and leaned down to suck Derek’s lips in between her teeth and worry them as their chests pressed together. Her warm, smooth skin felt divine, and Derek wrapped her up with both meaty arms to squish her to him, dick twitching with every brush of her nipples against his. He pushed one arm down to pull aside the crotch of her panties, red silk bunching over one side of her mound and pulling tight.

“May I?” Derek asked as she released him from a scorching kiss.

“Please do,” Jo replied, flicking her hair back with a deft flip of her head. “In fact, I  _ insist _ .”

Derek didn’t waste time-- pushing two fingers into her and feeling along the silken insides of her body. She huffed a moan, her hips shifting and squirming on his fingers. He leaned his head up and took her mouth with his again, languidly licking into her mouth to taste alcohol and sweet cinnamon, a left-over from Bitty’s kitchen efforts. With one hand occupied, his other grasped the back of Jo’s head to tilt her into a more pleasing angle, she rewarded him with another moan hummed right into his teeth. Derek felt her wet slick down his knuckles and drip to the heat-damp space between his legs and his hips rocked up.

She groaned, “Yes, that’s it, Der --that’s it…”

Jo began a steady rocking down into his pelvis, chilly air heating with their hot breath and the slide-stick of their sweat-dampened skin. “Der- do the thing, Der,” she said softly, words puffing across his cheekbone. Derek smirked, and crooked his fingers --just the way she liked, hard, blunt scraping at her inner walls followed by a twist. It wasn’t the best angle to get her where she really went wailing, but it was a treat to see her back arch and her voice go high-pitched and shaky. He adjusts her legs, her fine-tuning to her pleasure the exact sit and tilt so that each of his upward thrusts rubs her exposed clit just as she wants.

Slowly he increased their tempo, stimulating her from inside and out, her voice slowly being drowned out by the wet sucking sounds of her sex on his fingers. Jo’s squirming shifts as the minutes pass, until she is all but still, hips twitching directly into Derek’s stiff dick as it’s raised up in it’s cloth prison. Tiny movements that drive the molten burn in his belly to spread farther and further, until he feels like a good thrust could punch his privates through steel and his lungs could breathe flames into Jo’s dark locks.

She stilled, thighs shivering, a gasp on her lips.

Derek stilled his hips and slowed the stir of his fingers, working her through her orgasm until she lay lax over him, panting and damp.

Derek waited patiently, shifting his legs and hips to attempt to ease the terrible, and terribly wet, confinement of his compression shorts. It didn’t take Jo long to rally, hardly but a minute. She reeled herself up on slender arms, putting her breasts on fabulous display in the lamplight, glistening, perky and pale with the odd freckle. The crumpled red fabric of her bra glowed in highlight to the fresh flush of her skin.

She brought her arms up slowly, with the music, to tangle in her hair and pull it into an artful mess over her head. The wonderful rocking of her hips began again, and Derek felt like the blood under his skin was rushing in time to the beat of her hips, the music, and his green eyes transfixed upon the path of her pale hands skimming over her own body, tempting his eyes to drink their fill.

Derek was always a lover of the written word -- he could and often did write poems expressing every manner of emotion and action...but sometimes, it was nice to let it be. Jo’s body was a poem of movement in its own right, writing verses of passion and heady with sex. Her palms cupped the soft swell of her chest, then slid down to emphasise the small ridges of her ribs, glided across the soft curve of her stomach. She rounded the arc of her hip, then the crease of her thigh, and followed that down to the apex between, her fingers perfectly framing her peachy folds, a puffy pink clit just barely peeking through, excited as it was from their play. She slid her fingers through her own trailing slick, and then up, up--

“Oh fuck, Jo --you’re so fuckin’  _ hot _ ,” Derek moaned, head dropping back, away from the sight of the girl pushing her fingers into herself. His cock was spasming in its confinement, thick, ready, and probably purple with blood. Every twitch sent a confused twinge of aroused discomfort up his spine and down to his toes, curling into his chest as his brain didn’t know what to make of such a signal.

Jo laughed, and after wetting her fingers well, reached for the band of his shorts. “Sneaky boy! Your turn.”

Derek laughed softly, and raised his hips to help her lower the waistband of his shorts over the curve of his hockey ass, pulling them halfway down his meaty thighs.

After a little maneuvering, Jo gives up trying to get them any further down Derek’s body whilst also remaining firmly in her perch over, and then directly  _ on, sweet lord, _ Derek’s lap.

“Jo-- _ Jo! _ Please, jiminy cricket, stop squirming or we’re gonna end tonight revisiting middle school traumas of not getting it  _ in _ before getting it  _ off _ !” The wet press of her against his bare shaft was a tantalizingly bad idea, “Oh,  _ oohhh _ , my god, Jo!”

“Yeah?” She rocked herself up and down his length, folds spread around him, and it is wet, hot, and glorious. Derek had to close his eyes against the wave of pleasure sparking up his spine from his pounding erection, singing the hallelujah chorus to Jo’s smooth shaven cunt. Derek trembled so hard holding himself off his  _ teeth _ rattled, and still, it hardly seemed enough to keep him from tipping over the edge into the promised relief. Derek’s hands found the crest of her hips and squeezed, soft flesh giving to his grip.

“Hah,  _ yea _ aah.”

“Like it?”

“Mmm- _ hmm. _ ”

Derek steadied his breathing, though he was only partially successful as flashes of  _ good _ and  _ wonderful _ and  _ yes don’t stop _ zinged all over his body, tingling his toes and fingers and melting what good sense he had.

“Hang on for a ride then, baby. You’ll like this.” Derek’s flailing thought processes failed entirely after that. It was all warm, squishing heat--wet like he’d never felt before-- serenaded by rising moans, both Derek’s and Jo’s, and accompanied by the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. Derek’s hindbrain took charge of all motion below his navel, feet flattened on the floor for maximum thrust, and each aimed unerringly for the rippling vice seated over him. It was only the by the barest scrap of thought that Derek bent one hand toward the unsteady task of curving under Jo’s mound, toward the place where they were joined, and set a thumb to work her nub in fierce, unyielding circles.

It was to three grinding thrusts that Derek lost it-- panting to the ceiling, unable to so much as squeak a sound past his tense vocal chords. His whole body strung tight in a moment of absolute raw shock as he dimily felt the shivering loss of rhythm that was Jo’s peaking. He stayed, still, and stuffed so deeply into her body that he thought he might disappear from his own head.

Then his muscles went limp, and he dropped onto the bed with a hollow  _ whump _ , and Jo flopped directly on top of him with her own sudden exhalation.

They lie in the bed, soft music crooning from Derek’s speaker, panting and satisfied.

And Derek felt himself soften and slide out.

The wrong-ness of how it felt was innate, unfamiliar, and immediately apparent.

“...Jo?”

“Yeah?” Jo mumbled, arms pretzeled up behind her, attempting to work her bra clasp with nothing but determination and a fraction of her wits.

“Jo, you did remember a condom, right?”

“I didn’t bother with one, Derek-- I’m on the pill, and it’s your birthday. Consider it a present.”

The sweat on Derek’s skin turned icy and Derek’s brain went from wafting through a floating, sexy haze, to a numb canyon of stupefied shock. “What--what the actual  _ fuck _ , Jo?!”

Derek rolled Jo off and away, sliding down the bed to put more space between him and her to get a good look at her face in the light --Derek couldn’t say if being able to see her clearly was more of a blessing or a curse, perhaps it was both at once. Derek could see her face to evaluate her truthfulness, sure, but in the dark he could have pretended she was telling the truth even if she wasn’t.

Jo’s delicate, lightly freckled face was blinking at him wide-eyed and nervous.

“Uh-- _ huh? _ ” Her eyes flicked from Derek’s eyes, to his hunched shoulders, to the awkward shuffle he was doing to scoot infinitesimally away from her. “I--I thought you’d like to try it,” she said.

Derek swore,  _ loudly _ . “That doesn’t mean you do it without, I don’t know,  _ talking to me _ first!”

Jo sprang back as though struck, and Derek saw her beginning to shake.

“I thought you would like it,” she said again, her brusk demeanor fading as Derek’s frown grew stronger.

“Jo  _ \--Jo _ , unprotected sex is a goddamn  _ huge  _ step. You can’t just decide to go bare-willy without asking somebody their comfort level on it. Hint:  _ I’m not comfortable with that! _ ”

Jo retorted quickly, “I’m on the  _ pill _ , it’s not unprotected! And don’t tell me that it’s not effective, when taken properly the pill is incredibly efficient as a prophylactic! I take my pill at exactly the same time, every single day! I know it’s less effective if I take other medicine with it, so I triple-checked myself the last week to be sure I didn’t take anything!”

Derek gaped. “ _ The pill isn’t a prophylactic, Jo! It’s a  _ contraceptive _!!  _ You can still pass disease when on the pill!”

Jo’s pretty mouth was turned down in the tiniest frown, and she spoke with only the smallest of quivering in her voice, “I haven’t been with anyone else since we got together, Der.”

Derek pinched his nose, “Neither have I, but I don’t know your history, and I  _ know _ I haven’t been checked this year. I can get around, Jo --Mahreen could tell you all about it.”

“But, if we’d been checked, you would have wanted it, right?” Jo ventured, “Like, literally every boy I’ve ever dated wanted me to do this with them as soon as they found out I was on the pill. They  _ begged _ me for it, Der.”

Derek rolled his eyes, and by the noise she made, she saw it, and it cut deep. 

“Jo -- _ I am not any of your shitty exes. _ ” He took a breath, and stood up, pulling up his compression shorts, despite the tacky feeling of spend on his dick and the unpleasant pulling as it smeared into the fabric. “An no, Jo-- I wouldn’t have wanted it. You’re cool --for real, you’re smart, you’re funny, and your body is a slasher-flick’s wet dream, but I don’t want to go without a rubber until I’ve found the person I want to spend forever with.”

Derek shrugged, eyes drifting down to the soiled sheets, “It’s my version of chastity...and you took it from me.”

The silence hung heavy and thick between Derek and the girl on his bed.

“Are you breaking up with me?” she asked.

“...you know, Jo...I think I am.”

Derek risked a glance up. Jo was crying. Of course she was crying --the night couldn’t end without Derek being a jerk to a girl on his birthday, could it? Derek was willing to go full asshole over this --screaming, kicking her out naked, the whole nine yards-- but that didn’t make him enthusiastic about the drag-out fight that would result. He could already see it --Jo’s tears in the corridor getting his neighbor’s attention. From there security would come and it would be one Crying White Girl being screamed at by an Angry Black Man and Derek could kiss his chances of staying on the team goodbye. He could imagine the face of a dispassionate judge glaring down at him as Jo cried in the plaintiff’s seat and how he’d get locked up until his mom or mama could fly in to bail him out, possibly months from then. He imagined that Jo would spend the rest of her life telling story about the writer she used to bang and how he was  _ fine with it  _ until after the deed was done, then decided to turn into a prude.

Jo surprised him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I...I’m sorry that I didn’t ask you. Do we really have to break up?”

There were no qualifying statements or pleas, no refusals to accept reality, or bargains for a nebulous later-time to re-evaluate the decision. Derek eyed her, warily.

“I love you,” she whispered. It was small, and sad.

He swallowed thickly around the clamp of his esophagus, “As much as anyone unofficial can break up, yeah.” He didn’t say  _ it  _ back.

Jo didn’t say anything else. Her tears were thin, and her mouth set into a stiff line that wobbled if either of them so much as breathed too hard. It was stiff getting dressed, and the pair didn’t say goodbye at all. Derek’s mind was a wind-up whirligig, running through a set of instructions as fast as his body said he could do it, then circling right back to where it started, slightly slower and more numb with each repetition. Derek would have to call Mahreen in the morning -- start with  _ ‘you were right’ _ and end in  _ ‘I need to communicate more.’ _

Jo left nearly as put together as she was when she entered, dark hair slightly more mussed and all her lipstick rubbed away, and her eyes a little more unsteady. Derek didn’t offer to walk her to her dorm. Instead he shut the door, stripped into clean, loose boxers, too tired to even attempt a cursory wash of himself.

His phone buzzed.

It buzzed a few more times, and Derek wearily lifted it from his nightstand to look at the time. Just cresting past one-o’clock.

_ How terrible the hour _

_ when unexpected strife _

_ steals from us our moments _

_ of temporary bliss _

_ and curdles them unpleasant _

_ from on our very tongues _

_ and what had been happy _

_ becomes a font of blight. _

Derek didn’t write it down, but clicked open his screen to look at the team’s scattered messages of goodnight.

**The Hot Captain:** _ Goodnight, SMH! HAPPY VALENTINES DAY YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARDS!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <<-these are sweethearts just 4 u bros!!! _

**The Hotter Captain:** _Sweet dreams for r sweeeeeeeet players!_

**Bitty:** _night yall! :))))_

The parade of texts flicked as almost everyone in the chat, even those that rarely spoke up, chimed in a goodnight or a moan of chocolate-muffled douchebaggery.

**Chowder:** _happy v-day everybody! sweet dreams!_

**Red Headed Asshole:** _GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, I HAVE CLASS IN THE MORNING._

Large text glared out from the screen, and Derek curled around it, the familiar grouchy anger settling his unhappy head.

**The Hot Captain:** _Mr Samuel L Jackson is that you?!_

**The Hotter Captain:** _Sorry, Dex._

**Chowder:** _be nice, Dex! ….but yea...sorry :(_

Derek clicked off his phone, and clutched it to his chest. The banter and buzz on the phone abated, leaving the teen in silence once more.

The phone buzzed a few minutes later, and Derek clicked it on. It was a private text this time.

**Red Headed Asshole:** _Plug in your phone. Go to bed._

**Red Headed Asshole:** _Happy Birthday, Derek._

_ Derek? _

_ Derek. _

Derek swallowed thickly, arm already reaching around to grope for his charger. Drama with Jo faded to background noise --existent, but to be dealt with later  _ \--Dex had called Derek _ by name _!!  _ It didn’t mean anything. It  _ couldn’t _ . Dex was practically dating Holster, and the senior had already made it clear that dating Derek’s D-man partner was something of a goal. Holster, big and brash, usually got what he wanted in cases like this.

But it was a  _ step _ . And just because Holster could pull ass didn’t equate to him getting to  _ keep  _ it, which, after a few dates...he usually didn’t.

Derek rolled over, sleep that had been oncoming like a train--dark, powerful, and ready to run over his weary, resigned corpse-- derailed utterly into different territory.

Hope was a fickle, prickly bitch, and Derek dreamed of molten, gold eyes, glittering lights, and un-burning fire. He chased a flickering flame over chilly ice, between tall brick buildings covered in vines and surrounded by people hurrying from one place to another, and into a rickety old house that was full of warm smiling faces. He chased it through a phantom New York, familiar corners and streets and restaurants turned unfamiliar and strange by the light’s glow and spirit. It wasn’t relaxing, per say, but when Derek woke, he felt…

...unexpectedly nice.


	9. Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that could have, went wrong in March.

Everything that could have, went wrong in March.

Maybe the tip that the month was going to be awful was in that Holster, by some stretch of time, memory, or neglect, forgot to pay the power bill on time. It was only off for about six hours, not enough time for the food in the fridge to go bad --but Ransom did end up missing his Laboratory Genetics lecture on Mid-term review day. When Derek came in later for the now-weekly skype call with Bad-Bob, it was to see Holster wrapped all around Ransom, who was collapsed half-way on the staircase, shivering like a leaf. Bitty was in the kitchen, anxiously flitting from counter to counter, the warm and spicy scents of his baking being soured by the smell of his nervous sweat. Chowder was on the gross green couch, eyes locked in on Ransom’s spastic twitching and whimpers, and one foot jiggled relentlessly.

“Guys?” Derek asked, his bag slipping off his shoulder. He let is slide down his arm and land with a thump as he took a seat next to Chris on the couch. The other Sophomore leaned in, twisting to keep a better eye on their co-captain.

“Full coral reef mode. Holster forgot to pay the electric bill. Power came on about an hour ago.” Chris sat ready in front of the laptop, connection to Bad Bob ready to go up, “We’re not gonna stay on with Mr. Zimmermann tonight, Nursey, I’m supposed to tell him something came up.” A broken whimper came from the vicinity of the staircase and Chowder turned full around to look in the senior’s direction.

Derek pulled the other into a one-armed hug, “Go help him, bro. I got Mr. Zimmermann duty.”

“Thanks, Derek,” Chowder said, already up and moving to get his ridiculous limbs around Hoslter and Ransom.

Ransom was still curled up ten minutes later when the Skype call started buzzing, and Derek opened a window to Bad Bob’s face. Derek smiled winningly, but something must have slipped through, because it wasn’t but a moment before Mr. Zimmermann’s face fell. “Everything okay, Nurse?”

“Ah, not really, Mr. Z. Ransom’s having a panic attack, and while Holster has it mostly under control, he is still pretty shaky. We’re probably not going to be staying on to chat tonight.”

Bad Bob’s eyes went soft and pained, almost hurt, “I understand. Ransom you said? Is he verbal? May I speak with him? I...ah, well, I’d feel better if I could say hello --just to check on him.” Derek nodded, and scooped up the laptop to walk it over to the base of the stairs.

Holster looked up at Derek with big, wet eyes made even larger by his thick glasses. Holster looked like pure sympathy alone might put him in the ground, he wasn’t trembling, but his eyes were red-rimmed as though tears were just readying to fall.

_Some have hearts too great and large,_

_this kills many who are afflicted_

_when pains are great and sympathies small,_

_but brings to fore a few who are_

_more than the sum of their being._

_But for each person who weathers,_

_the battering storm of apathy_

_that we remaining wear as armor,_

_there is a person weak as us_

_who bring a greater person to their knees._

Derek placed the laptop on his knees as he squat down, facing the screen to Ransom. Two large dark eyes rolled up, wet and shaken, “H-hey, Mr. Z.”

“Hey, Justin...are you going to be okay with the boys?”

“Yes, Mr. Z...The worst of it’s passed, really...I just...well, I didn’t miss a _test_.”

Bad bob laughed from the other side of the screen and continued, “Maybe not, but you’re shivering bad enough for me to see through my terrible camera phone. You’re sure you have him, Adam?”

“Yessir,” Holster replied, squeezing Ransom as if to prove the point.

Their soft conversation, which drifted between assurances and the quiet discussion of training drills was soothing. Ransom was slowly unfurling from Holster, and had even reached out to take the laptop from Derek.

The door slammed open with a shouted, “Hols? You game for--why the fuck is everybody on the floor?”

Dex pulled up short on the way in, door ajar behind him and head cocked to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek saw Holster cringe.

“Hey, babe--”

“Not your babe.”

“--Dex, I would totally be game for a long night out at Chester’s dining hall followed by a longer night in, but, uh...maybe a rain-check? Ransom just had a coral-reef moment and I sort of think I should be here for him?”

Derek saw the shift as it happened. Dex’s eyes flicked from Holster’s grit teeth, Ransom’s torso curled over the laptop, and Derek and Chris crouched at the foot of the stairs. The stars of gold then focused in on the laptop suspended over Derek’s knees and something went supernova just behind the redhead’s pupils.

Dex’s arm swung back to catch the door before it fell all the way shut, “Sorry man, I forgot that it was a Zimmermann night. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Bad Bob’s voice popped out through the speaker, “Hello, Dex!”

Dex gave a full body jerk, “Hey.”

“I actually think I’m going to be going --Ransom could use a night of rest. Now, I’ve heard a lot about you from Adam, Chris, and Derek but we haven’t spoken at all. I’ll call again tomorrow, and I thought I’d formally invite you to the chat?”

Dex stood stock still for a moment, then his fingers flicked the door shut, one leg kicking back to force it in the corner where it liked to stick when the weather went wrong.

Several thumping steps and Dex crossed the entryway to face the computer that Derek had helpfully turned toward the door. Dex glared down his nose at the camera, supernovas dimmed in callus rage.

_frothing hate_

_broiling, glacial_

_so hot against my skin_

_that it chills me to the bone._

“No.” Dex said, simply.

Then he reached down, and clicked the laptop shut --cutting the connection.

 

After that was an e-mail from his and Mahreen’s Astronomy professor. Derek had been diligent about going to class --but he’d been severely slacking in the ‘paying attention’ department. His midterm grade was nothing short of abysmal, and Mahreen’s hadn’t been much better. Looking for a tutor was going to have to take a priority that Derek had been putting off.

“It’s the math, isn’t it?” asked Mahreen, “Do you get nickle and dimed to death over little mistakes?”

“No,” said Derek. “It’s figuring out where the numbers GO.”

Mahreen twisted in her chair, once more the pair ensconced in the squishy seats in the glass-walled study rooms. “Derek...your reading comprehension is fine--you’re an _english major_.”

Derek felt his face heat, and took a moment to praise any powers-that-be that his complexion generally drew notice away from his flush. “It’s _psychosomatic_ .” Really, it could have been discalcula for all Derek knew, but he was _fine_ at math until it came to anything beyond the most basic of algebra equations, which was just about all of his and Mahreen’s homework. “Point is,” he continued, “I have to pass for Hockey, and another test grade like this and I won’t be good. I turn in all the homework, which is probably my saving grace at the moment, because we get points for attempting as well as them being correct, but that doesn’t doesn’t give me enough room to bomb my tests.”

“Still my fault,” Mahreen said after a moment.

“Completely,” Derek agreed.

“Fine,” she muttered, “I’ll find tutoring.”

“Start with the TA,” Derek suggested. “His office hours won’t work for me because of practice and games, but he may know who we can ask.”

“Like a professional tutor?”

“Yeah, and seriously, Mahreen? My moms can foot the bill. It’s for a good cause.”

 

Derek stared after Dex during practice, all smooth grace and powerful pushes forward, held back by a delicate sense of awareness and space. For all that he was a D-man, Dex never touched someone on the ice unless it was to give a good check. It was sickeningly effortless, until after, when burgundy helmets were slicked off, and the bright copper atop Dex’s head was dark like old blood, and his normally pale face was so red that it nearly matched his freckles.

“Good practice, Nurse.”

 _Derek was_ done, _he was_ dead. _This boy was going to kill him._

Despite Whiskey being moved to the first line, their point game was falling behind. And without Jack, it was looking like their playoff run was going to cut short. Lardo and Ransom didn’t seem to cut up about it, thankfully, and Ransom had wrenched Holster away from Dex long enough to spend an afternoon making tentative (hashtag) kegster plans for the seniors’ birthdays. Still, practice was alite with fiery tempers and high stress. Jack and Shitty had had the championship stolen from them last year, and Derek felt the will to scrape into the finals waning with their loss. Each rough-rumble practice ending in bittersweet nostalgia as the Wellies sensed the oncoming end to their season.

 

Derek crashed into Chris’ room at the Haus with a clatter, chest heaving like a bellows from his frantic flight out of the big lecture hall in the humanities building and across campus to the Haus. The trip itself was blurry, highlighted only by the sting in his palms from catching himself against pavement and dirt when he’d tripped over _\--what was it? Three, four times?_ Somewhere upstairs, Holster was debating against shadows, the growl of it rolling down the attic stairs and distorting around the edges into a wordless snarl.

Heavy bags and satchels thudded to the floor that Jack Zimmermann used to tread, and Derek drooped to his knees next to where Chowder was huddled on his bright blue Sharks blanket, hugging his knees. Derek reached out and covered one sweats-clad knee with a hand. The sound of his own heavy breath echoed in the room, and Derek’s blood rushed in his ears.

“Is...is it true?” he gasped.

Chowder didn’t reply.

“Chowder -- _Chris!_ Is it true?”

Slowly, two charcoal eyes pick up from the Goalie’s knees. “It’s true.” His voice was even, almost dull when compared to his usual exuberance. “That _motherfucker_ sued Bad Bob.”

Derek swallowed around the lump of his throat, “Can he do that?”

“He fucking _did_.”

The news had hit halfway through Derek’s history class, a gen-ed requirement that he’d been dreading until history had taken a turn for pop-culture. He’d not gotten lucky enough to get into the US history courses, but he now had a lovely professor who focused in on Latin and Central America. They’d been discussing some of the more recent events of Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama, specifically the rejection of European cultural norms after World War I and the world economy bust, when just about every phone in the room rang one after the other. It was like an Amber Alert in slow-motion, one or two phones would ring in jolly succession, followed by a few seconds of silence, then another few phones would buzz. It was funny for about a minute, because Ms Lincoff would freeze mid-word during each buzz as students frantically fumbled for their phones.

The class _laughed_ when Ms Lincoff’s went off --to the tune of “Welcome to the Jungle” and she finally waved off everyone to check it and see just what Incarnate news had the internet up in a twist this time.

Bad Bob Zimmermann was being sued for battery in a workplace setting.

At first, Derek didn’t believe it. April Fool’s was in a month, so why pull such a prank now? Derek hastily opened his own notification and began a light skim of the article.

No joke.

Some random nobody from Hockey in the seventies (Derek didn’t know his name -- _yet!_ ) wanted to -- _had_ sued Bob for injuries resulted from hard checks doled out on him during the prime of Bob’s career. The conservative press, Fox News, The Washington Post, Twitchy, and the rest of their like, were running it like it was the next Lewinsky scandal.

Since his initial notification, another two sites had send him their own article updates, and his feed on his phone had a running list of notifications that all looked to be for the same thing.

_Alleged, accused, supposed_

_and other terms like those_

_to mean ‘your fault’ ‘you did it’ and go_

_on to claim blame without trial._

Derek shook one pale knee. Then again, when the first movement didn’t garner a response. “Hey,” he tried, “it’s all a cry for attention, okay? This guy doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”

Chris turned his lovely face to Derek, stoic and flat with overwhelmed ferocity and nowhere and nothing to throw himself into. In pieces, the grim expression shivered, then broke. Chris tumbled into Derek’s arms, rolling the other Sophomore right onto his back, uncomfortably laid across the detritus of a college boy’s floor and his own school bags.

“But what if he does?” Chris mumbled into Derek’s neck. Moist breath panting into dark skin, tiny beads of condensation misting across Derek’s nape. Derek squeezed, holding the warm body against him tightly, thinking -- _what if he does?_

 

“ _REALLY, RANSOM?_!”

“Holster, why on _earth_ are you yelling at Ransom in the commons at seven am?”

“ _I!!!_ \--Sorry.”

The Seniors and Bitty were shuffling through the breakfast line in a sleepy post-practice gaggle, with a few wide-eyed alarmed looks nearby after Holster’s klangon shout.

“Dude! Back _the fuck_ off! I’ve been doing interviews since November as a _Plan B!_ You knew--”

“But I didn’t know you were _serious-serious_ about consulting. It’s selfish, soulless, corporate, liberal arts grad _grunt-work_!”

The two seniors were angrily scraping eggs, bacon, and other breakfast foods onto their trays, Holster trying to catch Ransom’s determinedly focused glare. The brush-off was harsh, and Derek, already seated, could feel the electric crackle of tension between the seniors.

“Holster,” Chowder said, “ _you_ want to go into consulting!”

Holster spun around betrayed, “I’m an _econ major_ , Christopher!” The giant blonde turned back to his best friend, angrily stalking towards the long table.

“You’re giving up on Bio! You _like_ Bio! And doctor stuff.”

“I know, I’m like, majoring in Bio and did Pre-Med…” The senior shrugged, pulling out his chair with a glare, “And helping people and stuff is important or whatever...” He flopped into his chair and gesticulated wildly before beginning to tick off his fingers. “But, my _parents_ want me to be a doctor. My sister’s a pharmacist and my other one wants to do engineering. We’d be the _weird trifecta_ of _Nigerian parent expectations_!”

Holster, earnestness in every line of his body, leaned in after sitting down himself, “But...you and Shitty are the smartest bros I know. Don’t you wanna be like him? Make the world a better place with your brain?”

“IDK --I kinda want to make money?”

“Same,” Whiskey said, to Ransom’s Right.

“Soft same,” Dex said, salting his eggs.

Whiskey, oblivious to the tense air of best friends not seeing eye-to-eye perked up, “Lardo! What are you gonna do after you grad--”

“ _I. Don’t. Know. Yet._ ”

Derek flinched away from halfway across the table. Lardo was in the middle of finding a new manager for the team, and to put it lightly, it wasn’t going well. They should have hired one late February, but all they’d been getting were unruly bros and fans lacking emotional constitution and organizational skills. Derek tried to keep out of it, as graphic organizers made him itchy, and in general Lardo’s binder of “all things managerial” made him feel like he was going to scratch his skin off. He knew that Dex was casually present at all the interviews. He brought back some crazy stories, too. Between the search for her replacement and the truly pitiful state of her thesis notes and paper, she was...not doing good. He brought her coffee at the library regularly and hoped the simple support was enough. Though, passing out flyers for the job with Dex and Chowder had been hilarious --he’d even gotten Dex to throw his in the air in frustration.

“DUDE!”

Derek jolted from his reverie at Holster’s enormous shout. “I GET THAT YOU’RE SCARED!” Holster’s chair clattered over, “But you’re reacting! It’s like when you freak out before a final, but this isn’t just some test! Giving up your whole plan just to do what I’m doing doesn’t make--”

“ _Fine, Holzy!_ Yeah! I’m freaking out, okay? But, like, fuck medicine or whatever--I don’t know what I want to _do_ so why the fuck can’t I make up my mind while doing something else for a while? Like. We’re graduating, and, why wouldn’t I want to hang out with my _best friend_ in Boston for another year?”

For a moment, Holster seemed to bend. Then he straightened his back, his frown pulling at the corners of his thin lips, “You can do that _at a med school in Boston_ , too!”

Ransom shot up, muscles tight and mouth sucking in air, no sound leaving his trembling mouth.

_“IS THIS BECAUSE YOU’RE FUCKING DEX?!”_

Derek always thought Holster was the loudest on the team, but apparently not. The absolute ear-splitting _boom_ of shout shut down every noise in the hall as effectively as a gun-shot. Dex, to Ransom’s left, had half of an hard-boiled egg in his hand, squished in one shocked fist as he blinked wide citrine eyes up at the senior, bowing backwards away from the figure shivering with contempt.

“FUCK YOU, _ADAM!_ ”

The co-captain of Samwell Men’s Hockey flipped his food tray, uneaten, all over the table, then stormed off, tears already streaking down his beautiful face. After a beat of silence, Holster wobbled into a seat, pale eyes stricken.

A girl with dark hair and retro glasses helped Dex wipe up the mess and right Ransom’s chair. “Hi,” she said quietly to the team as conversations started hissing back to life, “may I talk to your manager?” she asked.

 

Derek _hated_ swinging by the Haus during mid-March, Derek only did it out of a strange sense of obligation. If his team was going to be stressed out, at least he ought to be there, too. It was oddly sentimental, in a way Andover never was and would never inspire. Derek felt obligations to his classmates at the prep-school, but those obligations left him feeling annoyance layered under his chill. At the Haus, when he walked into Ransom studying frantically, Chris crying so hard from homesickness he looked homeless, or Lardo deep in a fugue state of deadlines, Derek felt nausea punch him in the gut. Sure, there was nothing he could really do, but the idea that he could be there helped soothe him.

Lately, Bitty’s stress-baking was off-the charts, and it didn’t matter how sweet the smell of sugar and fruit, something lingered in it that was sour. Preserves lined the cabinets, counters, and lined up like soldiers over the window sill and sink. Soon, it would overtake every surface in the kitchen. Bitty had hushed skype chats with Jack nearly every night. Together they’d conquered dinner with Marty and his family, and Bitty had participated in his first family skate, but between Samwell’s upcoming playoff run and the rising hype and pomp of Bad Bob’s civil suit defense --Bitty was spending more time in the kitchen than out of it.

When Derek strode in, fresh from lunch with the girls, the Haus was silent. Carefully, Derek ascended the stairs, calling out softly for his teammates.

“Hey, door was open, bros...who’s home? Bros?” To the left on the landing, Chowder’s door was cracked open, dark and empty of life. He had been planning an evening out with Cait for a few weeks --neither had much free time, and so shared free time was guarded like Chris’ net. Viciously, and with focus. Across from Chowder’s room, Bitty’s door was shut tight, and Derek quietly crept up to the door.

Soft moans echoed out the door.

_Skype sex it is, then...good for Bits._

Peeking into Lardo’s room gave him nothing, but a disorganized desk called him like a moth to bug zappers --and just as likely to kill him if he got caught in Lardo’s room without her permission.

He read through her entire pathetic thesis paper and had scribbled all over it in purple ink (the first pen that had leapt to hand) before realizing it. Derek’s heart thudded helplessly, staring at the bibliography at the back, a virtual roadmap of violet. _Oops._

_Thmpthumpthumpthump!!!_

_SHITTT!!!!_

Derek looked to the trashcan --no. Too obvious. He thought about flipping the sheets over --no...he’d still get caught. He looked to the desk and wondered if just leaving the sheets there would perhaps not leave any evidence of the culprit…

Derek drooped, resigned, and walked out to the landing, marked-up paper in hand.

“Ransom!”

Ransom halted, almost to the attic door, and turned to face Derek. “Hey, bro,” the senior said, quietly. “What’s that?”

“Uh….nothing.”

Ransom chuckled, “Dude, sign it and leave it for Lardo --she’ll probably inundate you with coffee and messages for help.”

“Bro I went into her room without asking, she’ll kick my ass first.”

“Yeah, bro, but then she’ll buy you coffee and beg for help writing. You know she has reading problems, right?”

“Uh--no?!”

“S’true. She’s ESL. Vocabulary isn’t her strong point because she doesn’t use English at home. She says she isn’t that great at Vietnamese either, but it’s what she speaks with her parents and grandma.” The co-captain shrugged.

Derek looked at his captain, and took in the drooped shoulders, and wane smile. His skin was starting to ash up on his neck and around his hairline, unkempt like Derek had never seen.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

Ransom blew out a sigh, “Yeah, I wanted to talk with you about that, actually. Remember?”

Derek thought back to a quiet conversation on his birthday, with visitors crammed into their Haus, He and Ransom on the back porch, _“You okay?”, “Not on your birthday, little broham.”_

Ransom glanced over the landing rail, “C’mon, up, little bro.”

_Slowly rising up the steps_

_and questioning what answers await at the top_

_the thud of my feet matches the thump of my heart_

_and miseries shared, though halved in the sharing_

_feel double their weight in anticipation._

They settle onto Holster’s bed, close like huddled, frightened children.

“Does… is…. _am I_ still Holster’s best friend?”

“Woah, bro, where did you get this nonsense?! Of course you’re still best bros! I realize that you both had a fight or whatever, and yeah, it’s been a little tricky since then, but one fight doesn’t erase like, a decade of friendship or whatever!”

Justin curled down over his knees, “Four years. We met as frogs. I dumped my friends for him a long time ago --no biggie, they were shitty friends anyway more looking to get in with a future doctor than wanting to know me. I know Holster didn’t do the same --he still hangs with his high-school friends, did you know? I mean, most were in the Q with him, but a lot of those guys burnt out and reached out to him --and you know Hols, like he’d say--like he’d say _no_ to that--” the older boy took a deep, shuddering breath, held it, and another. His eyes were watery, but no tears were falling. He sniffed.

“Does it feel like you’re losing your best friend, too?”

“Oh, bro --I’m so sorry,” Derek said. He leaned in to wrap up Ransom in a hug that would have put him into giddy paralysis even a year ago, but instead felt like the worst kind of helpless.

“When I had that panic attack for missing class, I really thought it was getting better. Hols started chilling with me a bit more, and I got to see him at night--for like a _week_. But, it’s just --its crazy obvious that Hols is falling head over heels for Dex, isn’t it? And that’s cool, I want both my best bro and my teamie bro to be, like, so happy. So why does it feel like such shit?! I knew this would happen one day, it’s not like I didn’t think he’d eventually get a girl to go for his stupid pick-up lines and ridiculous show-tune belting. I...I thought I had more time…”

“Bro, bro, it’s life, bro...I know it hurts, but maybe it’s the push you need to really start making it on your own?”

Derek hated himself just saying it.

_All you need is a push,_

_pull up from your bootstraps,_

_you can do it ON YOUR OWN._

_Stiff upper lip,_

_head up, shoulders back,_

_you can do it ALL ALONE._

_Fix your face,_

_don’t act like that!_

_you can do it with a WILL OF STONE._

“Dude, I’m sorry that came out so wrong...What I mean to say is that you’re not crazy --he’s totally been blowing you off to hang out with and bang Dex. It’s super fucked-up that he doesn’t consider more time with you as a blessing. Here’s the even more fucked-up part: this happens in friendships.”

Wet dampness began to soak into Derek’s shirt where Justin had tucked his face.

“Friendships,” Derek continued, “They’re finite. I don’t think I know anyone with a life-time bestie outside of their spouse, and everyone knows the divorce rate in this country. Hell! Think about Mr. Bob’s stories! He’s got a ton of friends he used to try to kill regularly and vice versa! Even multiple-lifetime friendships eventually end, and you can take the opportunity to grow. And hey, maybe they’ll break up...Dex could dump him.”

Justin sniffed, and then the first crack of a wail croaked out of Justin, along with a thickly muffled, “bro --don’t take this the wrong way---but you are the _worst_ at being comforting.”

Derek agreed silently.

Justin calmed after a few concentrated minutes, and the pair headed downstairs. Oddly, the smell of baking things was dim, meaning that wherever Bitty’s voice was floating up from, it wasn’t the kitchen. Just as they got down the stairs, They saw a small gathering on the couch. Lardo, Dex, and Bitty were all on one side of the couch, while an unfamiliar girl with a decided fifties vibe to her glasses and hair continued what she was saying. “I’m pretty great at shouting?”

“Oh honey, you don’t have to --”

“ _Please_ demonstrate.”

“Call! Is at four thirty! _Sharp!_ ” she bellowed.

Tango wandered in from the kitchen, “Yes, ma’am.”

_What was going on?_

 

Apparently, the girl was their new manager. Her name was Ford, she liked Foxes as much as any true hipster, and was doing Stage Management in the theatre department. She like graphic organizers and was already geeking out about getting a new binder set-up for the Hockey team. And color coding it by player. Which was one load of stress off their current manager, but she was still spending each morning almost face-down in her eggs and cereal over her paper. Derek had taken Ransom’s advice to help her with it, but even after a few dogged read-throughs with highlighters, pens, and almost a complete re-write of both intro and conclusion, she still had a lot of writing to clear up.

He and Mahreen were at the Haus’ kitchen table, doing Astronomy work. Tutoring had been a shit-show at the designated hours, with a plethora of students harassing the TAs and commenting crassly across the din. Well, they told passers-by that they were studying. It was more bemoaning and writing terrible, melodramatic poetry about Astronomy classwork than actual reading of notes. So far, Derek had the best verse “heart begets breaks when the black-hole beckons” which made little sense but both agreed sounded pretty epic, but Mahreen had the best stanza, _“I look upon the stars/ and gazing/ find my soul a frozen/ waiting/ the tests I face ‘gainst souless skys/ drop my GPA as flies.”_

The Haus was as quiet as it ever got full of college-aged hockey players, their friends and girlfriends, and the loud renditions of show-tunes that followed Holster around like a cloud. Then, an unexpected visitor padded through the kitchen, looking balefully at the counters, covered in preserves. “Yeah, bud...that’s definitely two trips. I’ll ah--bring Tater next time, eh?”

 _“Jack!”_ Chris shouted from upstairs, feet already thumping out of Jack’s old room and hurtling the goalie down the stairs. Bodily slamming onto their old captain, Chris squeezed with as much might as he was physically able. _“Hi!!!”_

“Hey, Chowder, how’s classes?” Jack turned droopy eyes to the oversized puppy that Samwell Men’s Hockey called their first-line goalie.

_Sallow blue to ice-chip grey_

_soft fallen snow_

_mid-winter’s day_

_clear and cold_

_but melted just_

_your---your-- uh_ ….Derek lost track of his rhyme scheme as Jack’s eyes drifted over from the kitchen entryway. His eyes were over watery and his smile, never strong to begin with, was wobbling and weaker than ever.

Bitty skipped over from wherever he’d squirreled off to, “Sweetpea!” then, hushed, “baby--what’s wrong?”

Jack gently pried Chris off, and pat the Sophomore on his coarse hair, and reached out. Bitty took his hand and they drew together, Jack wrapping up in Bitty even though the smaller was hardly of height and breadth to physically do so. Wordlessly they left the kitchen and disappeared toward the stairs.

_What the hell?_

 

Practice the next morning was rough, Jack was watching from the player’s bench, quietly conversing with Coaches Hall and Murray while keeping one droopy eye on Bitty and the others. He flinched with the rest of them anytime Ransom brushed off Holster.

They played beautifully, they’d played together too long not to, but they also played with a silence that was unnerving. Derek pushed himself harder to make up for the lack, smiling slyly and getting Dex to puff up with indignation at every pause. A return to a lost ‘normal’ that Derek couldn’t say for sure even helped the situation. Thank god that the team was playing along with the slightest of desperations during their drills.

There were no races during speed drills.

They went to the locker room sweaty and downtrodden, and Bitty didn’t sound at all happy to invite them all to Jerry’s for brunch.

The walk over was thankfully short. Holster kept laying one arm over Dex’s shoulder, and the agitated red-head replied with a viciously thrown elbow every time. Ransom, on Derek’s right and behind their paler-skinned teammates snickered at every one, right up until the other co-captain caught on that he was in trouble, and leaned in for a hissed conversation right into the freckled shell of an ear. After that, neither Derek nor Justin were giggling.

The booth was crowded with all the Haus members, other teammates, frogs and tadpoles, and managers present. Jack was shifting carefully, arm around Bitty’s shoulder, and the small junior was fretting quietly. Derek caught a whispered, _“You don’t have to share anything,”_ before Jack cut him off with a squeeze.

 _“I’m okay Bud. I don’t want this to weigh on you alone.”_ The ex-captain pulled himself up and turned to the group, which was as quiet as they ever got as a group. “So, I have some updates for you all. First, my dad is going to have to do a whole trial, though his lawyers are fairly certain the only reason anyone is going through with it is to set a precedent, because based on existing statutes of limitation for non-A-or-B-types he’s probably not got anything to stand on, though there’s some uncertainty if the jury will be favorable to Incarnates or not.

“The other thing...well...lets just say that it hasn’t hit the big news yet, but there’s some...personal stuff going on with Incarnates and their relationship with the law right now. And it got dad in hot water with maman. She’s staying with me for a while, until it’s settled.”

Justin leaned in, “Settled how? How bad’s he in the doghouse, bro?”

“He’s in love with another woman,” Bitty said, bluntly. “And the fool told her about it.”

Dex choked on his water. Or rather, a whole lot of people choked on their drinks, Chris and Justin on either side of him included, but Dex is the one that Derek noticed. Mainly because his reaction was backward --angry, then shocked, not the other way around.

“ _The fu--?!_ ” Holster said, half out of his seat.

“He did _what?!_ ” half-shouted Lardo.

Like-minded agreements chorused up, growing louder.

Jack held up a hand before the volume went out of control. “It’s not going to be long before more information is out, but the topic was brought up, and he said what he said and now maman and I have to deal with it.”

“Are you okay, bro?” Justin asked.

Jack took a moment to consider thoughtfully, “It’s weirdly separate. I’ve lived away from home for a large part of my life, and my father in particular has always been someone to look up to, almost from afar. His being an Incarnate is the single most mortalizing thing I’ve ever learned about my father, despite it being his literal immortality. I don’t see him the way I used to, infallible and all-powerful, mostly thanks to all the skype chats we had with you guys. Hard to hold on to this legendary image of him when he’s talking about all these dumb things he used to do before television.

“My mother has always been both a unit with my father and separate from him, due to her work taking her on location for anywhere from an afternoon to months at a time. She’s staying with me, but even so I don’t see her much because she has friends in New York that she’s visiting most days and nights. I’m present to support her, but at the same time, she doesn’t need me.

“And, I’ve found...I don’t need them.” Here he squeezed Bitty again, tight around the shoulders. “I want them in my life, I love them, and I support them one-hundred percent. I would _love_ for my dad to give up on this Incarnate girl and come back to ask maman’s forgiveness. But...Just as I am an adult who must make my own choices, so are they, and the support I need to live my best life doesn’t come from them anymore.”

_Deeply sad wisdoms_

_that bring an understanding_

_not of sorrow, but of quiet resignation_

_sting not because of lost hopes_

_or the dying of dreams,_

_but in the quiet betrayal_

_of passing time_

_and growing up_

_and older._

 

That same evening, Derek was quietly reading in Chowder’s room, sprawled over the Sharks comforter while Chris draped over a huge plush shark like he could ride it away across the waves. Chowder had a book open in front of him, a french reader, of all things, but the goalie was staring, blankly, at his wall.

“Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah, Chris?”

“This is going to sound weird--but do you think you could sing to me?”

Derek shut his book and rolled onto his back, and slapped the back of a hand over Chris’ shoulders. “I can sing wonderwall?” he offered.

“No...do you remember that lullaby we hummed together that one night?”

“I honestly have dick idea of what you are talking about.”

“The night you told me Holster and Dex were a thing and started crying?”

“Ah,” _The melody was soft, slightly a-tonal, like it didn’t fit quite right on the pentatonic scale, They hummed it together until Derek stopped stuttering his hums through his trembling lip,_ “Sort..of…?” He tried a bar or two, but it wasn’t right.

“No, no --listen,” Chris said, and hummed through the tune, correctly. Derek listened carefully, and picked the tune up the third time through.

The goalie sighed, and closed his eyes, snuffling into his shark. Derek continued humming, and rubbed the other’s back for good measure, in long, firm strokes from shoulder to iliac crest and back again.

Several long minutes later, a muffled word huffed out from between Chowder’s face and his plush.

“Hmm?” Derek said, breaking rhythm.

“I said, _‘my mom doesn’t know this one.’_ ”

“Ah, a granny or auntie from your dad’s side, then?”

“Nobody. They think I came up with it.”

Derek rolled, “Uh, what?”

Chowder gently swat the the French book in front of himself. “It’s like this. Or like Piano. I know them, Derek. I knew that song when I was _three_ . I didn’t make it up --someone _sang_ it to me, and often. But everyone I ask about it just blows me off. I took _one_ piano lesson my whole life, in sixth grade. My orchestra teacher played some scales for me, and went to get a lesson book for me. When he came back, I was playing the music set out for the eighth grade girls’ choir. From the sheet music. When I’d never played a note in my life. No one taught me how to do that, but I spent seven years playing accompaniment for my school. My granny was horrified when I quit for ‘sports stuff’.” Chris turned guilty eyes to Derek, “I’ve been in French class for like, two months, Derek...and I thought it was just, you know, easy. Compared to Chinese school anyway--which I sucked at, so don’t tell me that I’m good with language, that’s bullshit. Ms Bourgeois showed us a couple Disney clips in French, though, and fuck, Derek, I’m a little freaked out!”

Derek was a little freaked out, too. “And?”

“It took a song or two, but I understood them! I figured I’d get like, one out of three words, maybe one in eight, and figure the rest out of context clues or memory. But no! It’s like...something got jogged in my brain and it just sort of said, ‘oh yeah! this stuff! We know this!’ and uploaded it into my head.”

Derek sucked his teeth, then said, “Do you think you’re a B-type?”

“No way….at least...I don’t think so.”

“So...an A-plus-type?”

It startled a huff of laughter out of the asian, and Derek counted that as a win.

“Maybe, do those exist?”

“We can ask Mr. Bob.”

They settled in, and were half-way into a nap before Derek’s brain prodded at him enough to ask, “I never knew any of this was going on with you. What made you share?”

Chris shuffled in with a wiggle, “What Jack said. About his support not being his parents anymore. Well, that and I had my french reader out. My parents aren’t my biggest support, either. They’re amazing, I wouldn’t change my parents for the world, but...they’re like...really far away all the time. It’s not like I can drop everything and go for a visit on a random weekend. I come to you guys more. My parents and I never thought it was more than a quirk, we didn’t put any stock or thought into it, but...after Incarnates, this French thing….maybe you guys can?”

Derek wrapped him up in the cuddliest hug he knew how to give. It was mostly elbows and tangled forearms.

“Sure we can.”

Derek settled in further, and began to hum the lullaby again, and Chris sighed from deep in his chest. It didn’t take long for his breathing to go long and steady with sleep, leaving Derek to contemplate mortality on his own.

 

“WHAT?!” Dex roared.

Derek himself leaned back, and could feel the full body sneer, perfected at Andover and positively poisonous, pull up his lip. He fought it down. He was _totally chill_ even though Dex was being a _complete ass hat of the highest order!_

“You can live _anywhere_ on campus -- getting off the meal plan and paying Haus rent actually _saves_ me--”

“Oh my god! _Poindexter_! You’re not the only guy at Samwell paying room and board!”

Dex’ hands actually raised up like he was about to grip them around Nursey’s neck.

“Hey, Bits,” Lardo said from her bean bag chair, putting on an air of nonplussed semi-attention that was ruined by the slight twitch of her brow.

Bitty was no more pleased, “What on _Earth_ are they bickering about?”

“Bitty, _please_ reason with-- _Aagh!_ ” Derek’s ears popped and he lept to Dex’s back, ready to pull off one or both oversized elephant ears.

“Bitty! Dex is being-- _oomph!_ ” One pointy elbow dug into his guts.

“STOP IT.” Lardo said, deep in her chest so it reverberated over the wooden walls and floor. “Ugh! They’re arguing about my _dibs._ ”

“Your dibs? I thought you were giving them to Ollie, or was that Wickey?”

“I _was_ \--but Ransom and Holster had them both locked down for the attic in February and never told me.” She motioned to Derek and Dex, still holding tight to each other’s elbows and looking for weaknesses in each other’s defense. “These two dummies found out this morning, and if they don’t shut up I’m giving my room to _Tango_.”

Derek shoved Dex off, “It’s not that you don’t deserve dibs, Dex --but I was banking on getting the at--”

“You were _banking?_!”

“Enough! Full team lottery. Only fair.”

Dex brushed off his arms, and Derek resisted the urge to pull hand sanitizer from his pocket, because now he wondered if he had something on his skin that made Dex flinch like that. “Sorry,” Dex said, “but _how_ does Nursey deserve dibs?”

Derek was sure he would go volcanic, luckily, Lardo answered first. “Dex. I _know_ you fixed a ton of stuff in the Haus this year. But Nursey proofread every art criticism I turned in this semester. He _practically wrote_ my senior thesis. And he gets a weird kick out of fixing bibliographies.”

“That last part’s fake,” Derek muttered, eyes narrowed.

“Lady and gentlemen,” Bitty interrupted. “This might necessitate a _Dib Flip._ ”

Derek and Dex both turned to the tiny blonde in confusion, even as Lardo grinned, “Ooh, shit! Good thinking, Bitty!”

 _“In lieu of a lottery, a coin flip can decide the transfer of dibs between multiple parties.”_ he quote. And Derek had the brief flash of realization that Shitty was, in fact, in law school. “Now, if you two could shake hands so we can decide this fair and square?”

“One flip,” Lardo intoned, “Will? Derek?”

“Huh. Poindexter.”

“Nurse.”

“ _‘Swawesome._ ”

Lardo flicked the coin up with one bitten, pitch-painted nail, and the gathered members of Samwell Men’s Hockey watched it flip end-over-end until landing.

“Wow,” she said.

“ _CHILL!!_ ” Derek felt the absolute one-eighty of his mood like he’d been hit with Nitrous Oxide. The sudden possibilities for his next year were terrible as they were limitless.

“Well! What are the odds?” Bitty said, quite proud, “Solomon himself could not have thought up a solution more wise. Looks like ya’ll are sharing a room!”

Derek grinned, ready to lean in to Dex and turn their competitive elbowing into good-natured ribbing.

Dex’s eyes weren’t happy. They weren’t even angry. His whole, freckled face was slack in disbelief, staring at a coin, lodged on it’s side in a gap between two floorboards.

The thudding muscle in the sophomore’s chest sank, and the stretch of his lips twitched, and froze in a facsimile of a smile. He pulled on the other’s arm, dragging him back to standing even as the red-head started to dip to the floor, reaching towards the coin. “Hey,” he said, leaning in to one large ear to stage whisper, “rent’s even lower this way!”

Derek grinned, waggled his eyebrows, even though Dex wasn’t looking, and leaned in to the stiff body beside him.

“This has got to be a test,” Dex muttered, face sinking into his hands.

“Poindexter!” Derek soaked in all the heat the other put out, giddily daydreaming about waking up, not freezing or lonely or by an unremembered face of a one-night lover. If this was going to work, they’d need bunk beds, for sure, but a boy can dream.

He had a quick vision of life starting in August --fights and half-naked moments changing, of listening late at night when he couldn’t sleep, to the sounds Dex made when he couldn’t either --shifting under his sheets, maybe listening to music softly with earbuds, maybe a moan if he thought Derek was well and truly down for the night? Derek shivered, “Face it, you’re going to move out by August, September, _tops_.”

“Hey, Chowder,” Lardo said, the goalie peeking in. Derek flashed him a grin.

“Oh wow, everyone’s here. ‘Sup guys?”

“C! Me and Dex got Lardo’s dibs! _We’re gonna be Hausmates!_ ”

Chowder’s face went slack, looking to Dex’s hunched form, face hidden, then back to Derek’s glued-on grin. His face split into his own grin, “ _OH MY GOD!!!_ ” He cried, “Oh my _gaaaaaawwwddd!!_!!”

“You all have ten seconds to get out of my room.” Lardo said, done with amusements and overexcited sophomores, and something in Dex must have snapped, because he moved away from Derek with a jerk. A puppet with pulled strings.

“Congratulations, Nursey,” he said from behind his hands. Slowly, he craned back, scraping his hands over his face, which was clenched in agony. “You deserve the room.”

“ _We_ ,” Derek reminded, but he already knew what Dex was about to do. “ _We_ have the room, Poindexter. _Dex?_ C’mon, I know you’re too stubborn to move out without ever moving in!” _Right?_

Chowder stopped jumping, and Lardo had sat up from her beanbag once again, mouth pursed in a tight ‘o’.

Dex’s hands dropped, and burning yellow eyes glared at the ceiling, thin lips going thinner.

_Please don’t do this, Dex._

_Please._

Dex twisted his head to Derek, and Derek got the distinct impression of a bug under glass. The toxic eyes flickered over every millimeter of Derek’s face, bored into his eyes, and dug out his soul, cringing back in the dark, to drag it to light.

“No.” The vindictive god said at last, a raging king denied and sour. “If you’re to share it, no. I cannot demand you to relinquish your claim, but I...I don’t have to take mine, either.”

Chris crumpled, from face to toe, “Dex, _no_...c’mon, take the dibs! Derek promises to behave!”

“I do!”

“ ** _No._** ” The word shook down to Derek’s bones, both for the finality and the devastation it wrought, a knife-strike to the heart. But then, Dex continued, “I would rather be lit on fire than be so close to you.”

Wow.

Okay.

This was fine.

Dex left the room with determined stride, startling yelp from Bitty as he shoved by on the stairs.

He was _fine_.

There was a thud as Dex jumped the bottom step, speeding up.

_Derek wasn’t fine._

He hurtled out of the room.

Derek pounded down the stairs and hit the front doorway with a thud, just in time to keep Dex from closing it. Derek ripped it open, grasping forward while Dex pulled back.

“WHAT DID I _DO_?!”

“Nothing you would remember! **_BACK THE HELL OFF._ ** ”

Derek spung back, stumbling on his heels and then hitting the floor of the entryway, startled by the look in Dex’s eyes, and the choked tone of voice. It was halfway between anger and regret, brimming in sorrow, and touched by the barest hint of fear.

He was crying, again.

 

Derek pushed as hard as he could, legs pumping across the ice with ferocious determination, eyeing the lug veering towards Chowder with a numb sort of calm. Derek’s ribs were burning, and the boy was sickeningly certain that one had cracked, making this the last shift of his season. This crack compounded with the bruise from February wouldn’t let him play again until off-season practice.

The score was dreary, despite Whiskey and Bitty’s best efforts, and Samwell was flagging down, exhaustion baying like a hound after every shift. Chowder was tired, and Mr. Roger’s just wasn’t good enough to keep out the puck at this end of the season, and despite all their focus and heart, the puck kept getting through. They were down by almost four points, and morale...morale was real low.

Derek was still reeling from Dex’s refusal to room with him. It put him off-balance, though, somehow, Dex was still right behind him with every shot and turn. Though the occasional glare redirected Derek back into the defensive zone when he started to wander out of it. Bitty and Whiskey were flagging, Veep was doing his best to keep up after Ollie got taken out for a twisted ankle that didn’t even happen _during play_. Wicky had been furious.

The second period would end, any second, they had less than a minute of play and the puck was in possession of the other team, Derek winced through the burning and settled in to face off against Harvard's incoming winger, pulling up fast with the puck.

“Nursey you idiot! Cover the _center!_ ” Dex shouted.

Derek saw what he meant a moment too late. Harvard had been attacking from the right and left all game, so changing tactics right as they were getting tired would be the absolute smartest thing to do. The oncoming winger passed the puck to their center, a lightning quick movement that Derek followed with his eyes before his skates reacted to push over.

There was a chain reaction. Harvard’s center coming forward to split the defense, Dex too far to the right to check him, dealing with the other winger to keep him out of action. And Derek was _tired_ , so even though he got his body in the right spot to force the center to change direction or stop, his feet weren’t quite on par with his body. The center was coming in fast, and slammed into Derek, and from there Derek went down.

He felt the slight pressure and release of Havard’s player number nine as he was flung by momentum over Derek’s body. Then, the dimly cold ice radiated through his whole side. His ribs went full-meltdown. His awareness of the rink vanished as he curled in, trying to cradle his side through his padding. Another stinging wave throbbed through him, and Derek groaned, hearing, dimly the buzzer, along with a panicked yelling in the crowd.

Derek tried, slowly, to rise. It didn’t happen. So he waited for a medic or Coach Murray to reach him. It took a bit. Bit by bit more things became apparent. There was activity to one side.

A stretcher rolled by.

A stretcher?

Derek focused, and turned.

Their goalie net?

Their _goalie_ net?

 _“Chowder?!”_ Derek’s cry was thin and weak, his lungs not expanding to their full potential. _“Chris?!”_

Dex appeared at Derek’s side, waving to get his attention. “Hey, hey, focus, let’s get you up.” Derek was led by his partner off the ice, following behind Coach Hall into the locker room past the pale and drawn faces of their teammates. Holster pat both their shoulders as they passed, and Derek took bitter joy in the fact that Dex didn’t give him a glance.

“Get your pads off. Louis! I think Nursey broke a rib!”

Louis shuffled over. “Yeah, this I can do.”

“What...what happened to Chowder?”

“He’s awake, so we’ll find out in a minute when they wheel him in here.”

On cue, Chris was brought in on his way to the training room, immediately the team crowded around.

“Bro, that was sick, what happened?”

“I thought I heard a pop, honey, what was that?”

“How bad you hurting, bro?”

“Little bro, little bro! Take my hankie, dude. don’t mind the sweat.”

“BACK UP!” shouted Murray.

Everyone took four tottering steps back on their skates.

“Ow.” Chris said.

The medic did some quick tests, bending Chowder’s knee, which made distressing popping sounds. “Meniscus, almost certainly. Could be strain, could be a tear. He’s out for this game at least, maybe for a few. You _may_ require surgery, son.”

Chowder, hissed. “Dang. Ow.” Fat tears welled up, then suddenly, “Shit. That hurts.”

“Get him into the training room,” Murray said calmly, but with telling steadiness that spoke of different emotions entirely.

“Nursey, too, Coach!” Louis added. “He’s not going in for a few games at least, but I’d like one of those medics to take a look at his ribs, I think one may have gotten cracked bad when Charleston flipped over him.”

Nursey was packed up and sent along with Chowder, waving goodbye to the rest of the team as Dex quietly shuffled along behind him, as though he’d been hit on the head, not the ribcage.

The medics took another few minutes to settle them in, and by then, Lardo appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Dex, we’re back to bench in five. Say your goodbyes, ‘cause both these frogs are going to the hospital for x-rays.”

Chowder groaned, “Can I get pain meds, though?” he asked.

“After your x-ray,” Lardo said, face crumpled in pained affection.

“Uuhghh...fine. Bye, Lardo. I’ll see you at the Haus, I guess.”

She ducked out.

Derek, still mobile, for all it hurt, shuffled his seat over to be next to Chowder’s cart. Dex folded his arms and glared. “I can’t believe you tripped another player into our goalie,” he said.

“Seriously? Shut the fuck up, Poindexter.”

“No, no, Dex has a point. You flipped a guy so hard his skate got embedded in my faceguard, Nursey. I nearly lost an eye.”

“Oh, shit.”

“He _what?_!”

Dex’s glare ratched up to eleven, and pinned Derek to his chair. Chris, in pain and unmedicated, barked, “leave him alone, Dex. Get out to the bench if you’re going to be a dick.” Then he gingerly laid back, “Ow.”

Dex wobbled, struck quiet and pained, leaning in towards Chowder and utterly failing to comfort.

Chowder glowered with all the force of a pained puppy, which was a surprisingly large amount, despite the lack of threat involved.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Dex said, slowly slinking back to the door. “I’ll..I’ll leave you both be.”

Derek didn’t want to feel relief from that, but some traitor part of his heart --the bitterest part buried under all his poetry, chill, and smiles for his mothers--swelled in satisfaction. It was the part that turned to their other injured friend and took his hand.

“Hey, Chris. Want me to sing you that song?”

 _See, Dex? We’ll be friends without you. We just may leave you behind. We share things you don’t!_ It cried. The more sensitive side of his heart had its own plea: _You’re so good at fixing things, Poindexter! Just fix this too!_

Derek began a hum, carefully not looking back at Dex at the door, and shortly thereafter, Chowder joined in. The dark-eyed boy smiled at Derek gratefully, even through the grimace as he gingerly moved his leg.

The song was tender, in its own, quiet way. Derek’s muscles relaxing, even his ribs taking a moment away from their ferocity to sigh and unwind. The refrain repeated twice, mid-way through a third when Lardo burst in.

“ _Dex!_ Let’s _go!_ You’re not likely going in the game again with Nursey side-lined, but damn it, if we’re cutting out at the first round we’re going to go out with some _fucking dignity_!”

Derek looked at his D-man partner’s shell-shocked face, eye-whites visible all around the amber irises. The other’s head turned in clicks to Derek, then to Chowder. Lardo yanked his arm.

_“Dex!”_

The sophomore shoved her off, “Where did you learn that song?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Poindexter, but Chowder taught it to me. He’s known it since he was a kid.”

“Can you three find _any_ other time for your _drama?_ Whatev’, I’m going to the ice, don’t be too late or Hall and Murray will kill you, Dex.”

“ ** _I’m coming,_** ” A veil of regal fury descended over Dex like a frozen crown of glory. His back ramrod straight, but not with the impression of a stick in his ass...he stood like a sword was strapped to his back and when he turned on his heel to leave it was with the breathless anticipation of battle. “ ** _HALL! MURRAY!--_ ** ”

Dex vanished from sight, calling after their coaches.

Lardo blinked after him, then waved to the injured pair and scampered out herself.

Derek and Dex were left alone in the training room to wait for the medics to come back and take them to the hospital, the dull rumble of the crowd vibrating through the walls and ceiling. A trainer popped in to hand them ice packs and rushed out again. Derek took Chowder’s hand and hummed through the song a few more times before Chowder spoke.

“How do you think we’re doing out there?”

“I…I’m sure we’re doing just fine.” The soft boom of stomping rumbled down over their heads. Derek smiled at his friend, and both pretended that they couldn’t feel defeat hanging over their team’s helmets. Another few minutes of near silence, and another, louder, boom sounded.

“Sounds like they’re getting excited,” Chowder said.

“Yeah...I know. Where do you think those medics are at?”

Another boom.

A minute or so later, Louis came in, trailing another trainer from the other team. “Guys, you _have_ to see this!” He focused a small remote in his hand at a hanging screen in the corner, one of those huge box TVs, which he clicked on to show an announcer-box view of the rink, little white and red players skidding around like tiny toys.

One of those toys flashed by a Harvard winger in Samwell’s defense zone and slapped the puck into the goal across the rink as quick as a blink.

Chowder screeched, “WE SCORED!!!”

Derek squinted, “Fucking shit --was that _Poindexter_?!”

“YESS!!!!” Chowder screamed, followed by, “Ow! BUT _YES!!!_ ”

“Holy shit, did we just watch a D-man get a hat-trick?” asked the other trainer.

“Yes Daniel, yes we did.”

Derek’s attention diverted towards them, and he could feel his jaw dropping. “A what?!”

“It’s got to be a fluke,” Louis said. “The first two ricocheted off their goalie and the pipes, there’s no way, right?”

“Dex is _amazing!_ ” Chowder said, teeth grit through his grin. “We’re almost caught up! How much time is on the clock?”

“Eight minutes,” Daniel said, leaning into Louis.

“He got three shots in twelve minutes?!”

Harvard was starting to lean into Dex, a winger set to him strictly to guard.

Dex slipped past him like a ghost through a wall, snapped up the puck and slammed it across the ice where it bounced off the opposing goalie’s skate, then his stick, and straight into the five-hole. “Holy _fuck!_ ”

Derek’s throat hurt he shouted so loud, his ears rung from Chowder’s. Derek was frantically thumping Louis on the shoulder, knocking him into Daniel beside him.

Harvard won the face-off, and Derek’s shoulder jerked.

“One more goal and we’ll get into overtime!” Chowder hissed.

“Don’t jinx it, C!”

“But we could _win!_ ”

_“Don’t jinx it, C!!!”_

Harvard flew up the ice like avenging angels, eager to regain their safe lead. This time all three forwards were guarding the puck from Dex, speeding in towards Mr. Roger’s and bearing down.

Dex swung in from behind, jabbed, and the puck skid out of Harvard’s control. Without even slowing, Dex wheeled around, controlled grace contained in awkward hockey padding, caught the puck and slapped it across the ice before Harvard’s forwards finished turning their heads.

The net over the goalie’s left shoulder cracked back as the puck hit it at speed. Slowly, the goalie turned to look, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“We’re tied up, we got overtime!!!” Chowder screamed.

Bitty and Veep glommed onto Dex, and thunder rolled down from the stomping of feet over their heads.

Three minutes left in play, and Whiskey won the face-off. He passed to Bitty, and both rushed across the ice. They made it almost to the defensive zone before a rough check by the boards sent Bitty to the ice.

Dex crouched, ready.

Harvard came in, straight, ready to punch through Samwell’s defense.

Derek didn’t even _see_ Dex steal the puck. Dex’s jersey, number 24, just flashed by, and then Harvard lost it trying to spin and keep their eyes on him.

Thirty seconds left on the clock. Overtime was imminent.

“ _YOU GOT THIS DEX!!!_ ” Chowder was screaming, shrilly, by Derek’s ear.

Dex was dancing around Harvard’s forwards, waiting for a clear shot, Harvard’s goalie already gearing in.

Fifteen seconds.

Whiskey checked one of Harvard’s attackers.

There was a window. Derek was halfway through screaming it at the screen when Dex took the shot, crowd roaring over their heads and rattling through walls of concrete and plaster.

The puck bounced twice-- once off the pipe, the second off the goalie’s helmet.

Samwell _scored._

The buzzer rang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else figure in all the plotting, and suddenly realize that you have more and more and MORE to fit into each chapter or your timeline is *fucked*, and suddenly you have monster chapters that are way too big?  
> That's how this one ended up being 25(?) pages  
> Thanks soooo much to Savi2070 in particular for looking over this before posting and pointing out all my mistakes! My sister is a wonderful human being and sounding board for fic ideas/plotting.


	10. Tricky Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classes started back up on Monday, so on Friday, Derek took Chowder out “For some fun.” Chowder was happy to hobble along on his crutches if it got him out of Bitty’s overprotective clutches.
> 
> “So...where are we headed?” he asked, grinning sunnily.
> 
> “What day is it, Chowder?”
> 
> “Friday.”
> 
> “Friday the…?”
> 
> “It isn’t the thirteenth, Derek-- _OH!_ Ohohoh!!!! IT’S APRIL FOOLS DAY!!”

Getting through round one of playoffs was surreal.

Derek remembers the ride to the hospital. He even remembers parts of the ride home in Murray’s truck huddling next to Chowder. Murray dropped them off at the Haus, and Derek remembers the faintly embarrassed quiet as he and Chris realized that their coaches probably knew exactly what the team got up to outside of practice.

The Haus wasn’t full of partiers, which was a little odd, given the tough win and the sizable crowd in the stands. Instead, when Derek and Chowder made their way inside, Chowder hobbling along on some crutches, it seemed as though the team was exhaustedly gathered in the living room, regalling Bad Bob with the game, who was oohing and ahhing at all the right moments. They cheered weakly when the pair entered, Holster cracking through a super-sized yawn, one arm over Ransom’s shoulders.

Well, that was good news.

Probably.

Dex was not present.

The next day, Derek went to classes, still half-dreaming about beautifully improbably shots, made by creatures of fire across glaciers of ice. The fire creatures also tossed pot-shots of fire off their palms at him at inopportune times. There was no symbolism there _at all_.

Round two would be the next day, and practice was reduced to watching tape in the locker room sometime that evening. He sauntered in a few feet behind Bitty, who was chattering on the phone to Jack.

“--you saw the clips, right?...Yeah, insane, right? I know, it was amazing, I’ve never seen Dex do anything like it. Anyway, so you’re still planning on one more trip down here for the rest of the preserves? Huh? Oh my gosh, the boys will _love_ that. Ransom may actually die from embarrassment or exposure.”

They slipped into the tape room, and the two-dozen or so plastic chairs in front of a TV on a cart and a whiteboard.

“Got to go, love you, sweetpea!”

Chris waved frantically from a row near the back, and both Bitty and Derek made their way over through the milling hockey players to meet him. “Hey, guys!”

Hall and Murray were setting up the TV, Lardo and the new girl, Ford, watching so that the job could be done by her next year. Holster and Ransom were teasing each other cautiously, feeling out the rough edges of a few days spent not talking.

Then a few whoops let out from near the door, accompanied by clapping and whistles.

“Whooo! Distance Dex for a DOUBLE HAT TRICK!”

Dex had arrived, his face as serious as it had ever been, vaguely constipated and set into the slightest of frowns. Derek didn’t know anyone else who could walk into cheering and hold such epic bitch face. Not while looking so good, at any rate.

 _Ugh, brain talking: no. He’s just standing there! In second-hand clothes and clingy, broken-in jeans! He is --at_ best! _\-- average looking. AVERAGE._

Derek’s belly--flip flopping and full of that terrible bitch, Hope-- disagreed.

Dex’s face scanned the room, caught for a moment on Derek and Chris, and then the other sophomore turned to the front row of seats.

“Hey Dex! Hey, bro!” Chris shouted, waving, “C’mon, sit over here!!!”

Dex turned and stiffly made his way over, Chowder beaming metallically. The goalie waited for Dex to get closer before speaking, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still kind of mad that you don’t want to room with us next year, but seriously, that was the most amazing ending to a game I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve watched a lot Sharks games and Stanley Cup finals. Who knew you could beast out like that?!”

Dex was silent for a moment. His grim face pinching, then tearing up.

Derek looked on in amazement as Dex swallowed, leaned down, and wrapped Chowder into a tight hug. Bright red hair ducked into a teal hoodie and broad shoulders shivered for a spare moment, before Dex released Chowder, and taking a knee. Hands over Chris’ shoulders, Dex gave their friend a watery smile, and said, “You should really elevate that knee, sweethe--Chowder.”

“I’ll get it,” Derek said, already reaching to turn the chair in front of Chowder around.

“Aw, _boys!_ ” Bitty cooed.

“Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen!” Murray called.

The gathered players filed into chairs that always felt a little too close together for their shoulders and general need to poke at one another. After the minute it took to settle them all in, Coach hall spoke.

“First, I don’t think I’m alone in saying, hot damn, Poindexter. That was fucking amazing.”

The crowd of hockey players whooped, turning in their seats to give Dex a round of applause.

“SEXY DEXY!” Holster shouted with a catcalling whistle, earning a smack across the back of the head from Ransom.

Dex looked around the room and rolled his eyes, “Thank you, Coach.”

“Seriously, though,” Murray said, “where ever that came from? Go there more often.” Laughter rolled through the team, and Dex stared flatly at the coach, shifting on his chair. After a moment of petulant silence from Dex, coach moved on, “Well, son, I expect that you’ll be on the ice a bit more next game, if you’re up for it. That was factually ridiculous.”

Dex made a strange sound, too soft for the team to hear, but Dex and Chowder met eyes over Dex’s ducked head. Chowder’s bushy eyebrows were up, and Derek could feel his raising to his hairline, too.

 

Maybe what made it worse was that this game was a home game. Maybe it was the fact that Dex’s older brother had driven in to watch. Maybe it was the fact that Minnesota-Duluth’s team, all in their burgundy and gold jerseys, was just a _really good_ team.

Derek walked into the locker room post-game trying _really hard_ to believe that.

He didn’t think anyone did, though.

Derek pulled his fingers through his hair, _weird,_ it was dry, he was scratched same as Chowder, _no sweat today_ , and turned to see the rest of the team trudging in on their skates.

The game had gone _terribly._

Whatever magic Dex had pulled in the game against Harvard had fizzled out like the death of sparklers in July, blindingly bright, but there --then gone.

They had been _completely_ crushed. Mr. Rogers had stepped up beautifully, but Whiskey and Bitty were having the worst time trying to get through the net, scoring a measly two points between them while Dex was swarmed by their attackers who were sinking pucks left and right. When all was said and done, they were down by an embarrassing six points.

Derek wanted to cry.

“Worst. Easter. Ever.” Bitty said, flopping down in front of his locker, peeling his jersey up.

Ransom entered near the back of the crowd, grim disappointment all over his face. He bumped Derek’s knuckles half-heartedly with a murmured, “Good game.”

Mr Rogers came after him, weeping into his elbow and Chris using him as a crutch even while he used the arm over the other goalie’s shoulder to pull him into a comforting hug. Chowder was whispering something to the other’s ear too low for Derek to hear, but the tone came across as both consoling and pitying. Derek swallowed around a mass in his throat.

Holster and Dex entered last, Holster’s big arm slung across Dex’s shoulders. The big blonde was weeping, not bothering to hide the red rubbed eyes and bitten lips. Dex had one spotted hand pressed lightly on the senior’s chest, body pressed in tight from collarbone to hip. Derek didn’t know how, but Dex hardly seemed sad, focused solely on his captain.

_Disappointment rankles_

_bites bitter to heart_

_steals strength from the voice_

_and snarls to pity._

_When set aside_

_it festers and boils_

_grows with neglect_

_like a great burnt-out city._

_It must be released_

_and allowed to burst forward_

_burn quickly and hot_

_and birth things more pretty._

Derek slowly reached for his notebooks, meant for notes on tape of other teams, and jot down the poem in his messy scrawl, mind spiraling away from his body to hover around Dex and Holster, taking a seat by Holster and Ransom’s lockers. Holster sat quietly for a moment, tears running down his face, looked around and opened his mouth to Justin, froze, then pulled Dex fully into his lap. He cried into the Sophomore’s shoulder pad. Dex sighed, and cradled Holster’s sweaty head close.

Ransom sat gingerly beside them, and put a hand on his best-friend’s shoulder. Leaning in. “Hey,” he said at last, “Kegster for Lardo’s and my birthday is a go, now. A few days after Easter is fine, right?” He fell woefully flat of enthusiastic, but drowning their sorrows in beer and music sounded _just fine_ to Derek.

“Discount Chocolate,” Chowder pointed out, head tilted into Mr. Rogers’. “Could be amazing.”

“‘Swawesome. Jack has the best birthday gift for you, Justin,” Bitty said, quietly.

The locker room was filled with the sounds of hard breathing and the smell of stale socks and damp boys.

Holster’s cries slowed, then, with the nasal quality of the recently sobbing, the co-captain rose up like a runny-nosed hero from greek tales and said, “Nah, brohs -- I gad a bedder idea.”

 

“Okay….this _is_ pretty great,” Derek said, Chowder was looking down at the carton of plastic eggs in his hand, one popped open to reveal a tiny bottle of whiskey nestled inside.

“It has been literally _years_ since we’ve had a real Spring Break,” Dex pointed out. “Is that not enough?”

“Speak for yourself!” Derek snorted, “my old team never made it to playoffs at all! I spent Spring Break one of two places: on vacation to visit my mom’s coworkers or in the dorm binging videogames and netflix and going into town to flirt with girls.” Derek set down his box of egg crates and shook out his legs. Derek and Dex had been carting the boxes of them from the attic for about seven minutes, which felt like three times that given the two staircases between the first floor and Ransom and Holster’s room. Chowder was “Supervising” from his spot on the stoop.

“Guuuyyys!” he whined, “I can’t mix alcohol with my meds!!!”

Derek and Dex chuckled, and Derek was caught by the bright halo of sun across Dex’s shoulders.

It was the Wednesday after the team’s loss at playoffs, and the day after Ransom’s birthday. The team was still pretty lethargic post-loss, but with the sunny cheerful weather, and the end of the year pulling up quick, they were finding other subjects to occupy their thoughts.

A familiar SUV pulled up in front of the Haus and Chowder howled in excitement, wiggling fingers outstretched in glee, “Jack!” The passenger door opened, “AND _TATER_ HOMYGOSH!!!!” The goalie bounced on his rear and Derek feared he would jitter himself all the way off the stoop and into the bushes.

Tater, completely unfazed, broke into a wide puppy grin to match his fellow asian’s. “Is little goalie!!! Hello!!!” Tater bounded over in a few short strides and hauled Chowder up by the armpits, swinging him around and then settling him onto a hip like a toddler. Chowder yelped. “Is okay!” Tater boomed, easily matching Holster for volume, “I will not drop!”

Chowder cringed, arms looped lazily over Tater’s shoulders, but his fingers clawing, “I believe you...you’re just crushing my junk.”

Tater’s eyes popped open, then he gently let Chris down, acting as a living crutch. “Am sorry.”

“S’wawesome, bro.” Chowder stood a little bow-legged, but under his own power.

“Hey sweetpea,” Bitty said, exiting the Haus in shorts and tank. Jack seemed to approve, because as soon as the party moved into the entry he bent to kiss one bare shoulder. Dex rolled his eyes and Derek tried to dredge up some bitterness on their behalf. He wasn’t that successful. Their lovey-dovey-ness bordered obnoxious in the best way. Derek had built more than one poem around it and gotten things thrown at him from the girls. It was adorable. Really. But Derek was bitter.

“Fine,” Dex said blandly, ziplock in hand.

“Oh what _now_?” asked Bitty, turning sharply and pouting.

“We got a dryer,” Dex said. “But I’m going to need a lot more cash to finish out the basement and properly insulate the attic. I’ll redo the fuse-box while I’m at it.”

Bitty opened his mouth. Closed it. Derek could see Bitty flash back to rickety stairs in the dead of winter when one too many people plug in a heater and somewhere a fuse would blow in the middle of the night. “Sweetie --pay the man.”

Jack sighed around a laugh and put a bill in the baggie.

Dex nodded at the pair and tromped back up the stairs, presumably for another box of eggs.

Tater was in the kitchen, photographing the preserves like a tourist, and half-contributing to the conversation about where Jack was going to take him on campus and if they would be staying for the kegster or not when Ransom swung into the room, obviously fresh from a run around the block.

“Hey guys, whaaaaa-AAaaaa _aaagghh grk!_ ” Ransom’s smooth-voiced hello choked off into a squeak.

Tater blinked up at Justin with happy, brown eyes and a smile.

“ _Ha._ ” Justin said. He continued with something that sounded like it could have been an ‘hello’, but had no actual air in it. Derek looked to Holster, just behind Ransom.

Holster was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Tater, soul bless him, didn’t take notice of Ransom’s starry-eyed horror at all, just pulled close to the pair and wrapped them up in a long-armed hug that shorted out something in Ransom’s frontal cortex.

“Hello!” Tater said.

“Hey, bro,” Holter replied.

“ _gggnnnkkk,_ ” went Ransom.

Derek watched in supreme amusement as Ransom’s higher brain functions fizzled the longer Tater kept up the hug. The tall Russian was smiling down at Ransom and Ransom was straight-up losing it in slow motion.

The tall handsome senior was squeaking even as Tater released him, and he wobbled dangerously before swooning straight into the kitchen entry, slipping off and landing out of sight with a crash. Tater, all wide-eyed innocence and puppy-dog kindness quickly stepped forward. Derek waved him off, “Chill, Tater, I got him.”

Derek tilted a nod to Holster, who returned it solemnly before addressing Tater himself. “Jack going to show you the sights, Mr. Tater?”

“Just Tater, friend!”

Derek got Ransom off the floor while the Russian was distracted and got him upstairs to the attic, passing Dex on the way down.

“Did I miss it? Damn. Tell me someone had a camera out?”

“Thanks, Dex, for the vote of confidence.”

“No problem, Cap. But seriously, Nurse, did he fall over?”

Derek stifled a snort into a bitten lip, “Later, Dex.” The pale teen shrugged and continued to cart the box downstairs.

“I’ll get the story from Chowder.”

“He doesn’t mean that!” Derek said quickly to Ransom, who was making a strange choking noise, “You don’t mean that, right, Dex?”

“...No.”

“See?”

“Tango’s reenactment will be much more accurate.”

“Dex!”

Derek turned, hands gripping air, and Ransom’s arms came up to circle him. Ransom was coughing around laughter, and grinning foolishly, and it was beautiful. “He’s right, it will be, but I don’t know if Tango actually saw it.”

Derek huffed, and curled his arms around Ransom and they hugged for a moment on the attic stairs while Ransom calmed down. Together they camped out upstairs, occasionally calling Holster to bring them snacks with pathetic voices and sad texted emojis. The noise from downstairs echoed up through the open windows as a mini-party for Jack and Tater wound up and then down again, ending with the sound of a starting car and Lardo shouting out an invitation for a rematch anytime. Ransom sat up abruptly from the next of blankets surrounding him and Derek and scrambled to the window to shout his own awkward goodbye. Derek threw a pillow at him, just to hear him squawk. Seeing Ransom’s beautiful face tossed back in laughter was a gift.

But Derek wasn’t falling all over himself about it.

_How silently we fall out of love._

_Or was it infatuation only?_

_You once captivated me_

_and I would have sunk ships for you_

_but now_

_while I guard your heart carefully_

_it isn’t with selfish design._

Derek lifted the blanket, and Ransom snuggled back inside.

“We’ll go down in a bit,” Ransom said, “When the Kegster starts.”

“Sure, man.”

 

Classes started back up on Monday, so on Friday, Derek took Chowder out “For some fun.” Chowder was happy to hobble along on his crutches if it got him out of Bitty’s overprotective clutches.

“So...where are we headed?” he asked, grinning sunnily.

“What day is it, Chowder?”

“Friday.”

“Friday the…?”

“It isn’t the thirteenth, Derek-- _OH!_ Ohohoh!!!! IT’S APRIL FOOLS DAY!!”

“Very good, which means that when I want to take you out for errands, I actually mean we’re going to _what?_ ”

Chowder’s grin when from sunny to that of a shark, “We’re going to the murder stop-and-shop for supplies to go crush the LAX bros?”

Derek pulled up short, “Was...was last year _you_ , bro?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Derek,” replied Chowder, with the most evil grin that one could produce with braces on.

“....you, sir, are more devious than you look.”

“Very.”

Derek snorted and continued to walk. “That mystery figured, no. We’re not going to need anything for the prank I’m thinking of.” Derek outlined the plan to Chowder as they finished their trek across campus, sunny weather and pleasant breeze making it an enjoyable trip. By the end of it, Chowder was almost bouncing out of his crutches, more excited than Derek.

 

The door to the dorm was operated with an electronic key card, but Derek just waved as they were walking up, “Hey! Hold the door!” and a friendly resident graciously allowed them in.

Chowder helpfully chirped that he was going to text that they had arrived and pretended to tap at his phone even as Derek grinned and thanked the one who’d let them in, one hand caressing the student’s arm and a pretty flush rising up on their cheeks. Derek and Chowder ducked over to the elevators after signing in at the desk --rules were rules and it wasn’t like they were going to _damage_ anything-- and one elevator ride later, they were outside Dex’s dorm room.

This was the hard part. Derek pulled out the crooked pins he’d fashioned after watching a few YouTube videos. “We’re sure he’s out?”

“At the Haus with Holster.”

“And his roommate?”

“Dex said he wasn’t getting back until tonight at nine or ten from the airport.”

“‘Swawesome.”

Derek slid the pins into the keyhole.

After about five minutes, Chowder’s grin had morphed from conspiratorial to annoyed and finally he took the pins away.

“It’s like you’ve never picked a lock before,” He said. Derek sputtered.

“Youtube made it look easy!” he said, Chris moving to block Derek’s view of the lock.

“Didn’t you practice?” The door rattled as Chris did something with the knob.

“Uh...no?”

“You goof,” Chowder said around the sound of a smile, and the door swung open.

Derek stared, “How’d you do that?!”

“I have sisters. Get my crutches.”

They entered Dex’s dormroom quietly, almost reverently. It was immediately apparent which side was Dex’s and which belonged to his roomie. Dex’s side was decorated the with rigorous exactitude that both his teammates had come to expect of him. The Jester dorms were famous for their dated, ridiculous interiors. Laminate tile floors and pale, cracked and peeling wooden veneers, and built-in beds that folded into couches if you wanted standing room for four instead of three. His roommate’s bed had been left unmade and ruffled, a few pop vinyl figures along its back, and a slew of papers were left behind on his crowded desk to gather dust until his return. There were some posters tossed up over the bed and on the ceiling. Conversely, Dex’s bed had not only been made, but it had been folded into its couch mode, several pillows painstakingly fluffed and placed jauntily to the side away from the desk, heedless of the fact that it put them in dangerous proximity to the single sink. Dex’s bed had one exactly level poster above it, and it was oddly bland, like an abstract painting pulled out of the back of a large picture frame. Swirled colors in autumn browns with hints of red and green. There was a white-erase calendar on the end closer to the desk, pulled straight from the late-nineties and with ink smudges that looked permanent under the new notes. His desk was equally exact, papers and books crowded, but orderly, and his laptop charging front and center harmlessly. Three pencils were in line to the right, all freshly sharpened, and one quick glance into the drawers proved that the orderliness was continued inside as well as out.

“The trick is,” Derek said, “To leave it neat. He likes neat.”

“And we tell him in a week we moved stuff around?”

“Yeah, unless he’s so crazy about it that he notices immediately and freaks out.”

“He might,” Chowder said, taking a seat at the desk and immediately shuffling the books. “You remember that time he kept sharpening his pencil after you broke the tips?”

“Ha, yeah.” It had been a funny few minutes while Dex got more and more red, flustered and twitching. It wasn’t until he slammed his things together and stormed out that Derek caught on that it might be more than a friendly annoyance. Bitty and Shitty had gotten after him for it, too.

Derek took one look at the sink area and decided to leave it alone. He wanted to mess with Dex’s stuff, not accidentally get an idea of what kind of lube he and Holster preferred, or what kind of condoms his roommate kept around. Instead he opened the closet and started shuffling shoes. It was easy because Dex really didn’t have many. Then the small suitcase up top got pulled down, a few shirts were pulled out of the tiny dollar-store cloth drawers and put inside before being put back up on the opposite side of the closet. The shirts and pants switched sides of the closet, and the jackets got flipped to face the other direction. Lastly, the gym bag on the floor was moved to underneath the desk, where Chowder used is as a prop for his leg.

Derek turned to the bed. First, after a bit of fumbling, he got it to slide down and out to make it a bed, and turned the comforter over, changing it from soft often-washed blue to a strange khaki-creme color. Another struggle switched the sheets from the plain white already on to the spare set from the closet in mossy green. He reset it to a couch and put one pillow on either end.

Derek stared at the poster in contemplation, and decided to leave it alone.

“Almost done?” he asked his accomplice.

“Yep!” Chowder popped. Derek looked over and sure enough, orderly still, but the books and papers were shuffled just enough to notice if you’d been looking. If the bed didn’t tip off Dex, it was likely that his desk would, if only because the ginger would shuffle through it all looking for his notes.

His pencils all had silly erasers on the ends, too, lined up just below his laptop keyboard.

“Perfect,” Derek said, and the pair left the room, giddy with a prank well-achieved.

“Can we go to Murder stop-and-shop?” Chowder asked on their way out to the sidewalk.

“Why?”

“Harmless pranks are fun and all, but seriously? I have been planning what to do to the LAX team all year.”

Derek’s head tilted, “Will we be arrested?”

“Not if we do it right.”

“I’m in.”

 

The call came late. Very late.

Derek had spent all day with Chris, first doing _something_ to the LAX house’s main water line just outside of the other team’s fenceline. Derek smiled, holding tools, and happily talking to the girls who lived in the house to which the flowerbeds Chris was digging through belonged to, not exactly sure what sort of cover story Chris had cooked up that the girls in question had immediately recognized him upon opening the door, offered him cookies, then walked him out to their backyard. Plausible deniability-- Derek didn’t ask.

Afterwords, Chris had been both sweaty and dirty, and Derek helped him limp over to the Haus for a bath before dinner. Dinner had been quiet, unusually so with Holster in the room, but the overall atmosphere was a bored sort of calm. Bitty did nag at the boys that the laundry needed to stay in their rooms, no, Waffle, no exceptions, and why were Waffle’s socks all over the living room anyway? He didn’t live there.

“Free Laundry,” was Waffle’s simple, deadpan answer.

Holster snorted at Bitty’s affront, and Waffle shrugged, “The dryer got fixed.”

Bitty was serving rounds of rhubarb hand pies when Holster’s phone went off, ten minutes before eleven in the evening. The recording was from the Golden Girls, but the volume from several boys loudly cursing at each other over Mario Kart thoroughly drowned out the story her tiny recorded voice was trying relate. In fact, by the time Derek noticed the recording at all, she was already being shushed by the other characters. Derek blinked, looking at the lit-up rectangle in Holster’s sweats as it shut off, mouth stuffed with pastry, and Holster completely unaware as he hooted at the screen, guiding Bowser’s kart through a turn.

Derek’s sluggish chewing returned, and then the rectangle lit up again, Blanche restarting her story.

He thumped Holster’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

Holster continued to play.

Derek thumped the large blonde again.

Holster shrugged Derek off.

Derek raised one dark brow, and set aside his plate, next to Chowder’s, who was utterly failing to keep himself out of third place.

“INTERFERENCE!” Derek shouted, and dove onto Holster, knocking him into Ransom, and both squawking as they went down.

“UNCONSTITUTIONAL!” Holster screamed, muffled under Derek’s chest.

“BYSTANDER!!!” Ransom hollered, even more muffled under them both.

“YES!” Chris cried from one chair over, “ _FIRST!_ EAT IT!”

Holster rolled, and toppled Derek to the floor over Lardo’s snorting laugh and Bitty’s tiny, vicious kicking.

It took them all a minute to settle.

And Blanche’s story started up again.

Derek sighed through a laugh, “Best get that, Bro, it’s like...the third time it’s gone off.”

“Wha? Oh shit, I have like seven missed calls!”

“From?”

“Uh...Dex’s dormmate?”

Derek and Chowder perked up, and Chowder stabbed the button to mute the television.

“Hello? This is he. Woah--slow down please, yes?...What?...Wait-- _what?!_ Hang on, I’ll be right there, it’s gonna be like, seven minutes. Yeah, I know, have you called the coaches?”

Holster’s bulk went from languid to alert in seconds, and he was off the couch and dragging on his sandals and cap without putting down the phone. “I’ll get someone to call them, then. Thanks for letting me know. Yeah, thanks Percy. See you soon.”

“Hols?” Ransom said, still toppled over on the couch, clutching his controller and a blanket.

“Dex is having a panic attack, his roomate just found him. Bits, can you text Coach Murray or Hall for me? I’m going to go see if I can calm him down. They haven’t been able to reach his parents.”

The bottom dropped out of Derek’s stomach, “He’s having a panic attack?”

“I think,” Holster said distractedly, “That’s what Percy said over the phone, but he’s non-neurodivergent, so he may be wrong, it could be an anxiety attack, or a bout of homesickness or something, I won’t know without seeing him.”

“Oh shit,” Derek said, and there must have been something in his voice, some thread through the worry, because Holter turned on a dime, eyes wide and narrowing into two over-sharp knives.

“What did you do?”

“Uh…”

“Derek Malek Nurse you answer me right fucking now.”

“Um, well--”

Holter’s head snapped to Chris, his large chest rumbling and frown intensifying exponentially.

Chris hid behind a pillow that was pathetically small, “wesortadidaprankonhisdorm!”

“It wasn’t meant to be harmful! Nothing was taken or broken and it was left neat! We just shuffled some of his stuff around!” Derek said, stepping between the senior and his friend.

Holster’s glare softened, frown twisting just enough to take it from fury to sadness, “It’s probably a panic attack, then.” He glanced back at the door, then looked back at the room full of his teammates and friends. Holster locked eyes with Derek, “He doesn’t really act it anywhere outside his room, but I’m pretty sure he’s got some level of OCD. If things aren’t left exactly as he wants he...has problems. He swears he doesn’t, and he doesn’t obsessively count or restart tasks, but…” and he trailed off, looking away again.

“Just...c’mon you two. You’re coming with me to apologize.”

“Fair!” Chowder said, already hobbling up and scrambling for his crutches.

 

Holster arrived at Dex’s door already booming at what would have been top volume to anybody else. “GET OUT OF THE HALL YOU GAWKERS!”

the few neighbors who were peeking sneered or gulped, and vacated quickly, save for the RA and a few adults that Derek presumed held some job in the dorm. Several petulantly left their doors open for maximum snooping.

“Hey Holster,” said the teen leaning on Dex’s dorm door. “He stopped babbling and hyperventilating, and we’re on the line with 911.”

“Hyperventilating?” Chris squeaked, tearing up. “Oh jeez, Derek we fucked up.”

Derek’s eyes found a spot on the linoleum near his toe and stayed silent, chewing his lip.

“Thanks again for calling me, Percy. May I go see him?” Holster asked, “We’re dating,” he clarified for the dorm manager.

They nodded, and Holster slipped into the darkened room. Chris wrung his hands and picked at hangnails. “We need to apologize so _so_ bad, Der.” Derek nodded shallowly at the floor.

Holster reappeared, pale and frowning.

“How far out is 911?”

“Is he okay?!” Chris blurted, clutching his stomach.

Holster’s eyes flickered between him and the adult on the phone. “He’s not responding to me, he’s talking gibberish, and it’s definitely very, _very_ bad.”

Chowder whined, curling on himself and the knots in Derek’s guts squeezed until the threat of vomiting was very real. He dared a glance up, and the adult was peeking into the room, relating to the operator a confirmation of Holster’s findings.

“They’re approximately two minutes out.”

Chowder’s whimpers intensified, and he stepped forward. “Nope!” he said, half-hysterical, “Gotta go apologize!”

“Hey!” Said the RA.

“He’s my _best. Friend._ ” Chowder said, “It’s _our fault_ he’s freaking out. I’m going to _apologize_ for a _month._ But I need to say sorry right now. Right now.”

Chris’ puppydog look could be weaponized normally, but the tearful trembling lip he turned on the adults and the RA was a tactical _nuke_ of contrite. “What could it hurt?” he asked, in the smallest, warbling voice.

The adult on the phone bit her lip, “Be quick.”

Chowder nodded, and carefully stepped into the room.

“Shouldn’t...shouldn’t someone be with him?” Holster asked, “In case he gets bad again?”

“Probably,” said the roommate with a faux calm that Derek was envious of, “But you were the first one who didn’t make him--”

There was an unholy scream from behind the door. The wave of it was almost physical, nearly knocking Derek on his ass, he caught himself on the wall with a forearm, ears swirling with vertigo.

_If a scream could drive me to tears_

_If a scream could steal my breath_

_If a scream could freeze my blood_

_If a scream could splinter my bones_

_If a scream could stop my heart_

_If a scream could shatter me_

_If a scream could do these things_

this one _would._

Derek shivered against the wall, eyes stinging and lungs trembling, and the howling went on, a sustained note of suffering rattling down to bones and marrow alike, rich with horror and an agony that Derek didn’t have vocabulary to describe. Around him, Derek dimly registered thuds through the piercing wail, Holster hitting the wall, the phone dropping out of the dorm manager’s hand to skitter across the floor, and someone the next room over hitting the ground.

Chris tumbled gracelessly out the door, sobbing and scrambling back on his rear, mouth moving in silent pleas that went unheard under the shriek pounding through Derek’s eardrum. Through the dizziness, Derek had the oddly clear realization that Chowder shouldn’t be on the floor. He stumbled away from the wall, and fell at the side of his friend, pulling the trembling body in by muscular shoulders, and cradling his head with one hand, covering his ear. From his slump against the wall, Derek saw Holster and the others, half-staggered themselves and braced on the wall, hands over their ears. The RA flat passed out on the floor. In a daze, Derek looked to the dark entry to the room, half-open and lodged on one of Chris’ dropped crutches. It seemed to yawn like the mouth of a great beast.

Dex was crouched far to the back, back against the wall next to his desk chair. His bag was on the floor and papers were scattered in an arc, as though they’d been shoved to the floor with a sweeping arm. Dex’s carefully maintained laptop was upside down on the floor, and Dex’s mouth was hanging open as the paralyzing scream went on and on.

Derek dared to meet his eyes, and his irises, swimming with tears, reflected the thin light of the hall in shivering puddles. They blinked slowly as the scream drained into a wail, and the wail shuddered into several breathy cries that didn’t have enough air. Then Dex was moving, a stumbling crawl forward, eyes locked onto Derek and Chris.

Derek flinched, raising up one protective arm just in time for Dex to dive into him with another half-powered wail. The hysterical teen pushed, shoved, scratched and yanked until Derek was separated from Chris, the injured teen being kicked away in Dex’s struggle to move both him and Derek away. Dex screamed inchoherently as he viciously bat Chowder away, hitting him repeatedly in the chest and arms, missing his head by centimeters to plant a dirty footprint on the wall.

He dragged them back, into the darkness of his room. He shoved Derek ahead of him and kicked at the crutch blocking the door, scooting forward only far enough to kick it out when it didn’t clear the first time. One last kick slammed the door shut on Chowder’s horrified face, before Dex collapsed, clutching around Derek with arms and legs and breaking down into halting, shivering sobs, rocking with the force of his misery.

Derek didn’t quite understand how he’d gotten here.

Dex had thrown himself down over Derek, his torso almostly completely hidden by Dex, and wrapped all around him. It was a nightmare dream come true, Dex’s weight settled pleasantly over him, strong arms around his neck, long legs astride Derek’s hips. But Dex’s moaning wasn’t passionate, it was _pained._ Forced from out of his lips like sticky ichor from a festering wound between hiccups and sobs. His body slowly rocked, his head shaking in quivering denials, a tiny voice-- thready and _weak--_ hissing quietly into the hollow just behind Derek’s ear, ruffling the tiny hairs there and sending shivers through Derek’s arms.

“Nay nay nay naynaynaynay _nay!_ ”

Dex hiccuped again and warm tears smeared into Derek’s ear. Derek slowly reached up and put both arms around Dex’s waist. He squeezed until his arms hurt, and Dex had gone from wheezing terror to labored semi-calm breathing. Derek shushed him softly, keeping his arms tight as his hands carefully roamed up to steadily stroke down a knobby spine and corded, tight muscle. “I’m here, you’re okay, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here.”

Dex pulled back, just far enough to look Derek in the face. Warm hands came up to cup his face, scraping over the stubble on his cheeks. Slowly, Derek’s eyes adjusted to the dark, and the sight above him, dim and soft around the edges, took the air from his lungs.

Dex was so beautiful when he cried.

He seemed half-crazed with it, clutched to Derek, tears splattering down onto unshaven cheeks and dripping into Derek’s ears. Gold eyes, sharp and terrifed, roved across his face like the slopes and planes of his brows might hold some secret that Dex craved to know.

At the moment, perhaps they did, but Derek certainly didn’t know what it was.

Callused thumbs smeared the trails of wet off Derek’s face, and did so again as more tears fell.

“Derek,” Dex said, voice shivering with his body and lungs. “Derek!”

“I’m here, you’re okay, I’m here,” Derek said, panic edging into his tenor.

“Derek...Derek?” Amber eyes flickered, “Derek _what?_ ”

Dex repeated himself twice more in increasing panic before Derek caught on to what he was asking.

“Derek Nurse! I’m Derek Nurse! Nursey! Your D-man! Your partner!” _What the fuck_ was _going on?!_

Dex’s breaths evened out again, “Nursey --Derek _Malek_ Nurse.” His eyes closed, and Dex’s head tilted back. Tears streamed down his face and neck, body rocking with a bliss-filled sigh of relief. Derek’s hands found his hips and held on tight. Dex looked down again, meeting Derek’s eyes.

“Derek, _my_ Derek--what’s my name?” the pitiful confusion on his face was terrorizing. The bottom of Derek’s stomach was coiled and cold.

“Dex?” he called for his friend.

Dex’s breath this time was deep and controlled, head lolling back, body arching beautifully. “ _William James Poindexter_ ,” Dex told himself in a whisper, “ _Derek Malek Nurse._ ”

There was a knock on the door, and both of them startled and jerked to look as it swung open to reveal Coach Hall and a paramedic. “Dex?” said Hall, the light from behind him reflecting oddly off his glasses and making his face hard to read in the sudden light.

 **_“Leave.”_ ** Another rush of woozyness pulsed through Derek, and he saw Hall and the medic sway on their feet. Behind them, there was a whump, and someone in a white polo fell face-first on the floor. Both men tottered backwards, the door clicking shut behind them.

Derek looked back to Dex, blinking away double vision. Dex sat astride him like a king on a throne, looking down with the passive knowledge that his will was law. Then the vision shivered, and he leaned in low again. “You can’t leave me, Derek,” a hand brushed across his face, barely there gentleness, “ _please_ don’t leave me.”

“--I--”

“ _Please_.”

Derek sat up carefully, squeezing Dex to him, who wrapped limbs around Derek like an especially speckled octopus. “I’m not leaving,” Derek reassured him. “But...something happened to you, and we need to get you some help.”

“Happened to me? What?”

Dex pressed in closer, somehow, seating himself more firmly into the cradle of Derek’s hips, pressing them together from --oh god-- crotch to clavicle.

“Holy shit,” Derek said, biting his lip, “Just...let’s just go out to the paramedics, Dex. They can check you over.”

“No! He’s outside! He’ll take you from me! He’ll take you away! You said you weren’t leaving!”

“What? I’m not! Who’s outside!”

“ _He_ is!”

Derek thought back desperately and landed upon Chowder’s pained horror as the door slammed in his face.

“Chowder?!”

Dex’s face crumpled in confusion, “Chowder?”

Then, like a spark fanned into a flame, “ _Chris_.” The other snapped back, twisting to the door with one hand over his mouth and swallowing a gasp, “Oh no, _Chowder!_ ” Dex’s head turned back, then his eyes went comically wide, “ _Nurse_?!”

He scrambled back to thud into his door on weak legs, “What happened?!” He stood on legs trembling like a newborn foal, and Derek’s head swirled with relief and disappointment. Dex fought the door open and light from the hall spilled in. “What the?! --Why are there so many people on the floor out here? Are you paramedics?!”

Derek watched from the dark as Dex took a careful step forward over a slumped torso, “Chowder? Chowder why are you on the floor? Where’s your other crutch?”

Followed by an ugly snort and Dex swooping down to calm an hysterical asian.

Derek, wobbling, stood up and re-entered the hall. Holster and the Resident Manager were propped against each other, the RA was still flat on the floor, though they had one polo wearing individual checking them over. Percy, Dex’s roommate was next to them, up, but looking concussed. Further down the hall, one hand was draped out of an open doorway, a dry-erase marker slowly rolling away from slightly curled fingers almost gracefully laid out on the floor. A ding from the other direction turned Derek’s attention to the right, where a third medic was rousing himself from the floor, the ding was the elevator doors catching on his ankle, where he hadn’t quite made it out of the elevator car before...tripping? He was flat on his face, but rallying.

Chris continued to make a mess of himself, smearing snot and tears all across Dex’s chest, smelling of sour fear and salt. He snorted inelegantly.

“Der-- _Nurse._ Get the tissues out of the drawer of my desk, second drawer, left hand side, right and the front, you can’t miss them.”

Chris sobbed harder and, bumbling, said, “N-no! They’rnt! We-we-we-meanDerektriedto _prankyou_ Dexandwefuckedupsoso-- _soobadly!_ !” He sucked a breath through chattering teeth, “I put them in the top drawer, in the back! I didn’t know it would make you go _crazy_! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m suh- _uh-orrry!!!_ ” His coherency ended and he continued to cry.

Dex cradled him, expression flat, “You moved my stuff?”

Chowder hiccuped through a cough and a sob and choked when all three at once overwhelmed him, nodding vigorously instead.

Holster, already moving to stand and looking steadier by the second said, “Yeah. You had one helluva panic attack, babe.”

“ _Not_ your babe.”

“ _Fucking--?!_ No. This isn’t the time to get into it. Wrong time, wrong place. Point is, Dex, are you okay?”

_Okay, that needs to be re-examined later._

Dex looked around, eyes calculated as he saw the people around him rousing from stupor and getting back to themselves.

“Wow,” said Percy, “Anyone ever tell you that you have a serious pair of lung-sacks, Will?”

**_“Drop it, you’re all fine.”_ **

Percy laughed at the groucing, shaking his head even as a voice from down the hall shouted, “YOU SCARED THE PISS OUT OF ME, POINDEXTER!” and the previously rolling dry erase marker was flung in their direction before a door slammed.

Then the medics swooped in to check out everyone, including their own unfortunate member already being ribbed for tripping forty feet from their patients. After assuring themselves that no one had a concussion, and getting a piece of paper signed by Dex refusing a trip to the hospital, they exited (down the stairs, just to rile their fellow).

When the only people left in the hallway were hockey players and a disgruntled roommate, Dex finally turned back to the dark entry to his room. He took a deep, steadying breath, and put one hand over Chowder’s mouth before he could begin sputtering more apologies. Holster walked up, one hand rubbing a tense shoulder.

“I can help you fix it,” Holster offered.

“We’ll all help,” Derek confirmed.

Dex flicked the light on without acknowledging them, only to flick it off again straight after, swallowing hard and looking ready to puke. “I’m out here with Chris. You two will do exactly what I tell you to.”

“I can help!” Chris cried, and Dex shushed him with a hand.

“Awesome. Can I go to bed? I’m fucking _beat._ ” Percy said.

“Sure, after how stupid this whole situation was, I’m sure **_you’ll sleep like the dead tonight._** ”

For two hours Holster and Derek reshuffled Dex’s possessions according to instructions told to them from outside the door until enough had been accomplished that the other Sophomores could enter without Dex looking quite so pale, and the failed pranksters found that their plan would never have worked anyway. Dex’s knowledge of what he had and where he kept it was absolute, right down the to order in which the shirts should be ordered in the closet and what color and number of pencils were in his desk. He sorted the school papers himself with a deft hand, and the whole project was completed just after three in the morning, Percy, as predicted, sleeping through the whole of it.

Room immaculate, Dex muttered, “Derek, you’re buying us all waffles.”

“Yeah. Fair.”

 

Derek was with the girls when the next big piece of B-type news was released. Classes had been back on for most of a week, and Derek had wanted to distract himself. Turns out having your team co-captain trying to make his relationship with your liney and unsubtle crush was stressful. Who knew?

Derek.

Derek knew, and he _fucking hated it._

So he was sequestered in the Reinhart dorms with Mahreen, Jo, and Micha watching Austin Powers and eating straight cookie dough because the season was over and Coach Murray and Louis couldn’t get after him for it.

His phone and Mahreen’s buzzed obnoxiously from the tangle of charging cords in the powerstrip that covered Mahreen’s absurdly messy desk. Micha paused the DVD with a groan.

_New B-type legislation?_

Derek wasn’t sure how a bill could get through the house and senate in such a short amount of time, but Mahreen was quick to remind him that Incarnates have been a thing for approximately forever (probably) and that they had been a _thing_ for almost seven months now.

And then he read what this new thing attempting to be passed was about.

And that Bad Bob and Alicia were in a fight.

And suddenly he had an idea of why that fight was happening, along with a whole slew of ideas on where this piece of shit legislation could bury itself and a number of profanities besides.

_They can’t really think this bullshit will pass, can they?_

_Do they?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have been waiting to write about April Fools almost since this fic's conception!!!_ *throws confetti* Many thanks to my wonderful sister, Savi2070 (sidenote: how do you link to a person in these author notes?), for looking over this fic and showing me it's myriad of grammatical faults and smattering of awkward phrasing. Without her input, I wouldn't have a good idea of what parts make ya'll laugh.
> 
> As always, PLEASE FEED THE MOTIVATION MONSTER WITH COMMENTS or by DROPPING A KUDOS! This fic is starting to get to some meat.
> 
> PS: HAVE I DROPPED ENOUGH CLUES THIS CHAPTER?!?! CAN I STOP TIP-TOEING?! DO YOU KNOW DEX'S (somewhat) SECRET, YET?!?!


	11. The Daily Myths We Tell Ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Incarnates are in practice, immortal. We cannot be killed permanently by any means available to us or the sleepers we share our world with. But, as adults warn off their children’s bad behavior with stories of monsters under beds and tales of boogeyman ready to steal them away, we too, have a monster of sorts._
> 
>  
> 
> _It is said that he is all-seeing, and all-knowing. No language he cannot understand. No history he hasn’t walked. It is said that where evil treads, he stalks behind, not to comfort the broken, but to slay the wicked, Incarnate, Sleeper, and Mortal alike._  
>  He has many names of course, our kind has heaped many titles on him, but the first of interest is perhaps his best known.
> 
>  
> 
> _Emperor Death._

Late afternoon light was pouring into the window of the Haus kitchen like a heavy golden syrup, Derek and Holster setting the table for the impending rush of hockey bros who would flood the space in the coming minutes as Bitty’s food finished dinner. Some of them had already gathered in the living room to shout as Dex and Whiskey systematically took down all comers in multiplayer mode in Bomberman 64. The old Nintendo system had been hauled out of storage by Wicky (or was it Ollie?) for eventual set-up in the attic. Anytime one character bombed another in the battle arena there was a shout and demands for “NEXT!” that echoed all over the ground floor of the dilapidated house. Every time that Derek looked in, he saw Dex sneering at the screen and smack-talking the bros around him, for all the world completely unaffected by the scene that had played out in his dorm just a few nights ago.

Derek, Chris, and Holster had kept mum about the whole incident save for reassurances to the Haus in general that Dex was fine, and not hospitalized, traumatized, or angsting in the darkness of his room. Derek had even hoped that would be it, and Holster could deal with the inevitable fall-out of having his sort-of boyfriend’s breakdown on his own, but Derek’s bullshit meter, fine-tuned by the cut-throat politics of Andover, kept sending him a feeling of disquiet. It was a prickling sensation on the skin, particularly on the softer skin on the insides of his elbows and just under his jaw.

“Hey...Hols?”

“Yeah, Bro?”

“Have you...talked to Dex?”

“I talk to Dex a lot bro, you’ll need to be more specific.”

Derek really didn’t think so; Adam’s glasses would fall off his nose if he turned his face any further downward. “About talking to someone? You said you would after we left waffles, remember?”

Holster stayed silent.

“You  _ did _ talk to him, right?”

The scrape of utensils sliding across well-loved wood was loud in the relative quiet of the dining room.  _ “Right?” _

Holter sighed heavily, leaning onto a fist.

“You didn’t talk to him?” squeaked Chowder from the entryway.

“It’s kind of been a situation, okay?!” The big senior hissed. “I  _ tried  _ to talk to him, okay?”

Chowder hobbled over, his crutch somewhere in the living area and likely kicked under the couch for Derek or Dex to fetch later. “What happened?”

Chris had been especially nervous in the day following Dex’s panic attack. He’d spent the whole day with Dex, in some strange combination of trying to comfort and being comforted as Dex walked wherever the other took him and let his distraught teammate pay for him. They’d visited the pond to feed ducks, went to Il Giardino for lunch, and then to the dollar theater across town for a Pixar Movie series. Derek had tagged along, and as the day dragged on the thought solidified that he could have left at any time and Dex couldn’t have missed him less. Every single moment crawled up Derek’s throat as Chowder basked in Dex’s undivided attention and only dragged Derek in when he needed to chime in a subtle agreement that he and Chris were incredibly sorry about their prank. Otherwise the conversation drifted between Dex and Chowder amiably without Derek’s input. It would have been prime writing time if it hadn’t made him so damn nauseous that every line self-aborted before fully forming.

Derek shook his head to dislodge the uncomfortable memory and focused back onto Holster’s dipping head.

“He...he didn’t take the suggestion all that well.”

“He realizes that he freaked out bad enough we had to call paramedics, right?” Derek said, voice lowered so that the din of the living area would drown out the conversation.

“ _ Worse, _ ” Holster says, “He literally can’t remember it. I had to tell him how bad he got because he doesn’t remember. The attack started pretty much as soon as he got home, so there is at least six hours of time we have no idea what state he was in.”

Derek cringed as Chowder choked, “ _ Six hours?! _ ”

“Yeah,” Holster huffed. “You may have to do it, Chow.”

“You’re dating him, not me!”

“Yeah, no, I’m not. He broke  _ us _ off.”

Derek’s jaw dropped for a split second before he schooled himself back into a dead-faced neutrality.

Chowder, on the other hand, “What?!  _ Why? _ ”

“Because I told him to go talk to someone at the Student Union?  _ I don’t know!  _ He clammed up and kicked me out.”

“Harsh, bro,” Derek said, and the statement fell flat and impersonal at their feet. “Are you sure kicking you out included a break up?”

“He was pretty blunt about it,” replied the miserable senior. He finished setting out the forks, and Chowder wrapped the taller up in an octopus hug. Derek reached out and put a hand on one thick shoulder.

Neither really knew what to say.

Then Tango tripped into the kitchen, “Did any of you read about this Incarnate Marriage Bill?!”

Derek tossed and turned on his stomach, his sheets curling around him and slowly tangling him into a deathshroud made of cotton and silk. He’d gotten up an hour ago to get a sip of water, and half an hour before that to turn on the fan, but now he was considering turning the fan off. If he dallied at it much longer than he might not get the motivation until sunrise, and he’d get to his nine AM class on two restless hours of sleep, and his Astronomy lab that evening would  _ truly suck.  _ Derek contemplated new and inventive ways to phrase the idea of something being absolutely excruciating.

_ Irreparably horrific. _

_ All-consuming agonizing. _

_ Unbearably tortuous. _

_ Exquisitely tormenting. _

_ Intensely unendurable. _

Agonizingly?

_ Already used that. Ugh...go to sleep, brain! _

Derek dared a glance at the clock on his nightstand, and the red numbers declared an elapsed time of two minutes since his last check.

He groaned into the dark of the room.

Derek didn’t understand how people could be dicks to one another. Well, he went to Andover, so really he  _ knew _ a  _ whole fucking lot _ about the twisted head-space that arrived them to their convoluted reasonings. That didn’t mean he  _ understood _ .

_ Why would they try to do this? _

“This” being the topic that Tango had unleashed upon the team of hockey bros at dinner time and “They” being some extremist group of religious wackos of indeterminate origin and number.  _ Probably Fundie Christians,  _ Derek thought, uncharitably. It was laughable to think that they would really get anywhere with the bill they’d introduced, almost as ridiculous as the noises Drumpf was making about running for president. Derek humphed and rolled over again, yanking at the sheets around his waist before they started to dig in.

Derek didn’t see himself as a married person. Trying became daydreaming, which came with flashes of ginger hair and had very little to do with  _ marriage _ and more to do with  _ beds _ . But he knew what a loving, supportive marriage looked like. His mothers had one. He knew the odds of actually getting one was growing smaller and smaller by the year as divorce rates went up and up and up. The bill in question was almost  _ guaranteed _ to make that number worse, even if only marginally.

Intellectually, Derek knew that if a pair wanted to stay together they would stay together, and if they wanted to split, they’d split. But if these  _ social conservative extremists _ had their way, it was about to get a lot more annoying to go with either option.

Overall, their thought was a simple one --marriage is between one man, one woman, and lasted until death.

A little limiting, but not Derek’s call to fuss about until elections.

The trouble was that Incarnates, B-types, hadn’t gone to heaven (or hell). Maybe they stuck around in purgatory, but they hadn’t joined with the host. And these religious nuts were saying that made their marriages to each other, and potentially to any A-types, legally valid.  _ Still.  _ Because apparently having a funeral and literally having your soul leave your body didn’t count as dying unless you don’t come back.

_ How would you even track it? _

Sure, several known Incarnates had talked about their marriages from previous lives, only a few had talked about their marriages to each-other, usually whist laughing at one another and how bad a match they’d make presently. It almost went without saying that they weren’t married anymore, and most were perfectly happy with any unions they were currently attached to. Or, like anyone else, were at least working on happy.

Then there were marriages like Bad Bob’s.

He was happy in his marriage.

But he also admitted to waiting for someone else to come along.

Derek’s guts twisted in sympathy for Ms. Alicia, and wondered how you go about forgiving someone for such a betrayal. Derek could remember a string of girls that had cheated on him at Andover, and the sour lump it always left at the back of his mouth when he’d found out. He’d never committed to them, using them for physical closeness just as much as they were using him, but that didn’t mean he ran around on them in turn. And Bob hadn’t actually  _ cheated _ , was intention to leave the same?

The solid mass behind his adam’s apple told Derek it might.

_ It wasn’t Derek’s problem. _

Slowly, Derek sat up, and gingerly spent a few minutes dragging the sheets from their tangle and the comforter from its precarious drape off the corner of the bed. Satisfied that he wouldn’t choke himself this night, Derek reached for his nightstand. He ran his fingers over the soft satin spine of the notebook there, considering writing for the next hour or two to settle down. Maybe get another hour of sleep before the baneful screech of his alarm.

Still considering it twenty minutes later, Derek fell asleep, one arm dangling over the side of the bed.

Derek was  _ exhausted. _

Derek walked into the Haus at almost eleven PM, ready to beg Chris into letting him crash for a night. Astronomy had a  _ test  _ today. A fucking  _ test _ that Derek hadn’t remembered, and didn’t study for. Every part of him ached. From his hair follicles to the toes he stubbed climbing the stairs of the Turner building  _ getting _ to said test. Mahreen hadn’t remembered either, and Derek had to coax her out of the bathroom afterwards where she’d retreated to cry from stress. Derek really didn’t need another reminder for what a shitty friend he was, but watching Mahreen carefully wiping up smudges of eyeliner with a watery smile and forceful repetitions of “I’m okay, really,” was a strong reminder. He promised to find them a tutor, for  _ real _ this time, and vowed internally, knowing that even if he did, it may be too late for their grades.

Derek leaned against the front door, just taking a moment to breathe, when Holster found him.

“H-Hey, bro,” Holster said, grin wane and more subdued than Derek cared for. Derek’s eyes prickled, remembering the downcast eyes from last night’s dinner as Holster avoided Dex’s face.

“Hey, bro,” Derek replied back, voice flat.

Holster huffed, “Murder run?”

“Fuck yeah, bro. Icecream?”

“YES. We need enough that the team doesn’t realize it’s comfort food.”

“Can I put whiskey in mine?”

“Feel  _ fucking free. _ ”

Part one of Derek’s apology to Mahreen was Friday morning, Holster and Chris in tow. Holster had dug out the backseat of his awful red jeep and they all piled in to head to the mall. The Barnes and Noble there was doing a release party for a book that Derek needed in his life, and  _ by god _ he was buying Mahreen a copy, too.

Derek didn’t believe in release parties on principle. Getting so excited for something, anything, so much that waiting in line to get access as early as possible was inherently unchill behavior and Derek, under normal circumstances, would not stand in one as a rule.

But every rule has an exception, and his was decided around the time that Derek, upon telling Mahreen that he would buy her a copy, saw the girl light up. She immediately asked about the release party, and in the same instant settled down, and Derek  _ knows _ the feeling of talking yourself down. Of taking the spark of excitement in your chest and stifling it to spare yourself the withering shock of the world doing it for you. He could see it written across her face in a split second of self-berating that shot him straight through.

_ It will be worth it all,  _ he thought, catching her hands and assuring her that to the party they would go,  _ when we remember we are worth more than these petty miseries. _

Mahreen had shrieked and hugged him. Then reminded him that they had to be back before Professor Connelly's office hours. Part two of Derek’s apology was getting them a tutor, and he was damn well going to deliver before either of their grades was unsalvageable.

“LET’S GET GOING, MOTHERFUCKERS! THE BOOKSTORE OPENS IN A’ HOUR!” Holster said, leaning on the horn while Chowder laughed and covered his ears. Derek waved them off, leading Mahreen to the shotgun seat without prompting. It was Ransom’s spot, and therefore the cleanest seat in the car, funny smell notwithstanding.

“Rans not coming?” Derek asked.

“Nah, he’s got lecture. My bro is a goddamn smart cookie-- no skipping for him. Now if I can just get him to lay off this nonsense about wasting his beautiful brain to do consulting.”

Mahreen, far more informed about this drama thanks to Derek’s need to vent, said, “I don’t think it’s so bad, is it?”

Holster answers with unconscious honesty, half his mind on the road ahead of him, “How am I supposed to look him in the face, knowing I’m holding him back?” It sounded far more genuine than anyone in the car was ready for. “Uh, I mean,” he stuttered.

“NOPE! Heard it!” Chowder leaned as far forward as his seatbelt would allow, “No take-backsies!”

“How the hell would it bring him down, bro?” asked Derek. “You two are the tightest pair of bros to ever bro. The Swallow has you down for  _ Number One Best Friends _ four years running. If anyone asks either of you what the best part of your life is, your answer is each other! How is that going to bring him down?”

Holster snorted, “I know my prospects, my dudes. And Ransom? Is capable of so much more than me. I don’t want to be the reason he looks back on life and regrets what’s come to be.”

It was so stupid that Derek honestly didn’t know what to say, and a quick glance told him Chowder was just as mystified.

Luckily, Mahreen had no such problems. “Self fulfilling prophecy.”

“Say what?

“A Self fulfilling prophecy, Captain. You’re so sure something will occur you set up the occurrence yourself to feel like you have control over the situation. In this case, you’re so sure he’ll regret not being a doctor and resenting your friendship that you’re lining up all the cards for him to be a doctor,  _ which he’s not even sure about _ , and now he can regret the dying of your friendship instead.”

Holster gaped at her.

“WATCH THE ROAD!!!” Chowder screamed. Holster swerved back from where he’d drifted out of his lane.

The subject dropped for the rest of the ride, and Holster pumped up the radio, chewing his lip.

_ Immortal Legends _ , a Treasury of Incarnate Mythos by Claudia V. West was the prize of the day. The group of four collected two copies, and Derek immediately cracked his open. Mahreen attempted decorum and held hers delicately to her chest, but almost fiddled a glittering bead off the fringe of her scarf before cracking and sitting straight on the floor and opening her copy.

Chowder attempted to distract himself, but also ended up on the floor and pulling Holster and a distracted Derek with him.

“Derek?”

“Hmmm?”

“Will you read to me?”

Derek peeled his eyes off of the page, dazed. “Whu?”

Chowder’s face flattened, “Really?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure.”

Derek flipped back to the first page and took a swig from Mahreen’s water bottle, then began.

“ _ Immortal Legends, a Treasury of Incarnate Mythos by Claudia V. West. This book is dedicated to my son, who grew up on these stories and  _ still _ read every single draft of this book. _

“ _ Author’s Preface: Though I strive for as accurate a retelling of these tales as one flawed memory can make, many of the stories within are echoed through many geographic locations or have bond-group specific alterations. The myths as I present theme here are sometimes pure as I know them, and sometimes a retelling involving only the parts that are universal,  _ blah blah blah _ , many have changed from one form to another in their retellings,  _ blah blah _ ,  _ Table of Contents, here--  _ Theme one: Origin Myths _ .” Derek’s voice carried softly and clearly, right at home in the excited, anticipatory atmosphere of the bookstore. And a thin pride overcame him as his friends all leaned in.

“ _ The Wandering Soul. _

_ “There once was a lonely soul. Born poor, and with little means to support himself, he wandered through his life as a beggar, with nothing to his name or person. Every day as a young man he would go to the village market, and beg for scraps. When he had begged enough food to live one more day, he would leave again for his hovel, where he would bed down. _

_ “This was his routine, every day. When the day was so hot the wrappings on his blistered feet would burn, he begged. When the day was so stormy that only the desperate braved their shops and most retreated to the hills, he begged. When it was so cold his toes began to blacken, he begged. He had none to count as friend, and less to count as family. And every night, he said, ‘I will leave tomorrow. Tomorrow the weather will be bright and clear, and I will finally be given enough to leave and make my way in the world!’ _

_ “And every day, he waiting until he’d begged just enough to live one more day, he would return to his hovel. _

_ “This was the passing of his days until he was a very old man indeed. _

_ “‘This world is so cruel!’ he cried on his deathbed. ‘Was I not a good man? I have never harmed another by deed or word! I have been frugal minded and caring to others! Why could I never see the world?’ _

_ “The soul cried in anguish that he could be so betrayed, and near a small child heard his cries and came to the hovel to point, and laugh. ‘See this old man! He begs and pleads for boons from the people of our home, and now cries that it was not enough!’ He pointed and laughed and drew many people to the old man’s scraps and they pointed and laughed, too. _

_ “‘You wanted to travel the world?’ the boy asked, ‘You could have walked away from the village many years ago! It was not us who held you here! If you wanted provisions for your journey, you could have worked. If you wanted companions, you could have asked. This is not the fault of the world, it is your own laziness that chained you here!’ _

_ “And the old man was ashamed, because the boy spoke only shameful truth, but now that he lay on his scraps and dying, there was little action the man could take to change the fate he’d arranged for himself. _

_ “The boy looked on, and waited on the old man as the gathered people finished their taunting, tossing fruit and broken buttons and refuse on his deathbed. But an sad old man with broken dreams is not so interesting, and they all left, spitting on the ground as they went. _

_ “‘It is true that I did not help myself,’ he said, ‘This I cannot refute. But what reason had you to ridicule me so? I am only a sad, lonely man, with no family or friends to call my own. Is not my hubris enough punishment for the selfish life I have led?’ And the boy looked to the ground in shame. _

_ “Then the boy came forward to join the man on the scraps of his hovel. ‘I remember wishing also to see the worlds beyond my knowing,’ he said. ‘I do not wish it anymore. But if you like, I’ll pass my wish to you.’ _

_ “And the young boy laid his hands upon the old man, and whispered a spell, and the disguise of a young boy melted away leaving instead a strong, young God-Spirit of fire, light and chaos in his place. The old man cried as he burned away. _

_ “And then awoke again a child in a world far different and strange. The man had once again been born poor, but he did not spend his life begging. He began to work, and worked harder than any of his new peers. Where they went home to families he stayed and buried in head in fields to scour and scrape. He saved what precious things he could and one day, when he was once again a young man, he was ready. _

_ “He walked away from his village with a well-stuffed pack on his back, and the well-wishes of his family behind him. At his side were his dog and three good friends, all ready to set forth for their fortune together. _

_ “The man travelled across many horizons seeing things he’d never dreamed of, people and places he’d only heard of. Along the way he joined other travellers or left them, and one day found himself old again. His friends had all made families and he’d left them behind one by one, his dog had grown old and he’d passed through a few more. Still, he burned to see more. _

_ “‘Oh how I wish this journey could go on!’ He said, having stayed in one village long, with weather putting ache to his bones and delighting children with tales of lands far distant and drawing pictures with the end of his cane in the dirt. _

_ “As he lay once more on his deathbed, he was visited by the villagers to brighten his spirits. They told him of all the comings and goings of their home, and all the news passed on by the travellers he had once been peer to. Each sunset brought a new story to his weakening bones. _

_ “On the day of his passing, an unfamiliar face came to his side. The God-Spirit of fire gazed upon him from the eyes of a young girl. ‘Hello, old man,’ she said to him, smile like a veil of flame. _

_ “‘Oh, god spirit of fire-- what a gift you have given me! Please, choose from my belongings what you would like to have, and please take it with my blessings!’ the old man offered to her from all the meagre possessions he had any that she liked for her own. _

_ “She shook her head and instead reached out to hold his hand. ‘I want none of your possessions. They are unimportant to me, who, like you, will only leave them behind when I move on to my next body and life.’ _

_ “‘I must own something of use to you, God-spirit,’ he told her, and began to recount each object of worth to his keeping and telling tales of their coming to his holding. She laughed and examined each, rejecting each and every one, until evening had long come and dawn was approaching. _

_ “In desperation, the old man asked what he could give her, and the God-Spirit said, ‘you have given your offerings to me already, old man, the only part of these objects that I can keep forever!’ _

_ “Confused, the old man asked what he had made a gift of, as she had soundly rejected everything he’d placed in her small hands. _

_ “‘When you wake again from your long sleep, nothing that you have now will be with you other than your memory --this is the most precious thing you can give me. You have given me the story of your long and wandering journey, and each misery and joy you had along with way is mine to cherish and keep. This, for me, is gift enough.’ _

_ “With that, the sun began to rise, and the God-Spirit once more became light and flame and chaos and burned his old and suffering shell away, to walk him into the next life’s journey.” _

Derek sighed breathless, and glanced up to his companions. There were about thirty kids gathered around them, and two particularly daring toddlers were ensconced carefully in the cradle of Holster’s large limbs. Derek glanced around and the scattering of applause and shyly waved as the group dispersed. Mahreen slowly rose from a gentle lean against Chris and helped Derek up after.

He paid for their books, and promised to read more on the trip back to campus.

After getting back to campus, the group had amicably split up to do, well, whatever they needed to do. Holster had gone to pry Ransom from the library for lunch and Mahreen had vanished with final hugs before running to her own class. Chris had something with Dex lined up. Derek tried not to take offense to the fact that Chris was spending all his extra time with Dex. It didn’t matter --he and Chowder were going to get  _ all sorts  _ of quality time next year sharing a bathroom. Derek said it to himself for the tenth time as he signed off his latest chat, asking for Frog-time  _ (See Dex, I’m game to share!) _ that evening.

**Clam Chowder:** _ :(((( sorry nursey! Hes still not up to hanging w/us both. I’ll talk to him about doing movies thsi weekend k? _

**You:** _ nbd, bro. we all figured it take him longer to forgive me than you.  _ ***Thumbs up emoji***

**Clam Chowder:** :(((((((((((((((((((((

Derek shoved the iPhone in his pocket and leaned against the wall, waiting for Mahreen. The dark wood of the walls in the hundred-year academic office building reminded Derek of the almost suffocating airs of Andover. Most of the lecture halls and classrooms avoided the problem by being more recent constructions. The professors mostly used the older buildings as topic-specific libraries and personal offices. Currently the hockey playing sophomore was waiting outside a heavy oak door with a glass window that proudly proclaimed ‘Mr. David Connelly, MS’ along with two other names in pretty gilt letters.

Office hours had begun fifteen minutes ago, and there was another student inside asking a few questions about the test. Derek’s was in his messenger bag, scribbled all over in red. Mahreen was walking herself over from lunch with her roomates, and was due to arrive at any moment.

The other student's questions petered off, the sounds dying off from behind the thick door just before it swung in and a skinny boy stepped out. “Thank you, sir! Oh, hey! All yours Nurse!”

Derek blinked up at an unfamiliar face surrounded by a veil of nondescript brown curls, “Uh, thanks, bro.”

A hand shot forward “Mike Peiwitz, I went to a lot of your games this season.”

“Oh, thanks, bro!” Derek repeated, much more sincerely. “Yeah, they were crazy hard to get into this season.”

Mike shrugged, “Hockey is apparently the sport of Incarnates, man. It’s getting hard to get into  _ any _ games, even ones for feeder teams. Jack Zimmermann was on our team last year, right? You played with him?”

Derek shrugged noncommittally, “Yeah, he’s a chill dude when he’s not on the ice.”

“Cool, coolcoolcool --if you talk to him before Stanley playoffs, let him know he’s got a couch cheerleader in class with you for the cup, yeah?”

Derek laughed the kind of laugh that you heard all over Andover, one that sounded like a laugh, and looked like a laugh, but mostly wasn’t felt, “They haven’t clinched a playoff spot yet, bro.”

“They will, bro. His dad is  _ Bad Bob _ , the guy grew up calling hockey legends  _ Uncle So-and-so _ .” Derek didn’t comment on his correct assumption.

Mike walked off with a smile just as Mahreen reached them, inspecting a hand for flawed nail polish, and Derek held the door for her. He stepped into the office just behind her. It was a small, crowded space, with three desks covered in binders and one floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on the back wall that was packed with textbooks and other publications until just about every shelf looked like it could have broken from strain except that books from the shelf below were supporting it. Just in front of the door was a couch facing the desks for students to sit on, it was a rough green, and reminded Derek greatly of the Haus’ own. Mahreen entered and sat on the far side, Derek opted instead to curl his legs under himself. His knees still hit Connelly’s too-close desk, but at least he didn’t look like a pre-teen trying to shove himself into a toddler’s push-car.

“Hello, guys,” Professor Connelly said cheerfully, “How can I help you?”

Mahreen smiled with her perfectly painted lips, “We are in desperate need of a tutor, sir.”

Connelly smiled indulgently. He was the sort of professor that gave the impression of being perpetually confused by the people around him, just slightly off center with the rest of the universe. He wore socks with sandals and slacks, and spoke softly but passionately. After having been in class with him most of a semester, Derek knew that in falling for his initial impression, he had made a grave mistake. Connelly’s fatherly smile hid a terribly shrewd and exacting mind for numbers, faces, and what was happening in his lecture room.

Connelly took attendance in a two-hundred person lecture. Himself. By sight.

And Derek found out with the rest of the class when a kid walked in late only to have Connelly point him back out the door with his indulgent smile and say, slow and relaxed, “I’m sorry Mr. Barre, you must not have seen your school email. You’ve missed seven classes this semester already --I’ve dropped you from the course. You may email me an appeal, cc the dean if you do, please.”

“I would certainly say so,” said the professor. “Neither of you two have been seeing the greatest success on your quizzes, and your presence at this office has been lacking. I’d started to think you didn’t know where it was.”

“Ha,” Derek said. Connelly’s tone wasn’t condescending --but only barely. “We wondered if you knew any grad students who needed some extra money? I’m able to pay.”

The man turned to Derek and tilted his head, “You’re on the hockey team, Mr. Nurse, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not a graduate student, but one of your teammates was in this class last semester who did exceptionally well. He and I had a few conversations over the semester, perhaps he would be the first person to check with?”

Derek felt tightness between his shoulders ease.

“Yeah, that would be great! Who?”

Mahreen frowned, “I don’t know --you hockey bros have a tendency to turn groups of yourselves in once place into orgies of noise and pies.”

Derek shrugged, she wasn’t wrong. “I mean, we’ll be paying them,” he said, “if we’re at the Haus pies will still happen, but we could probably meet somewhere else? There’s that room at the library that we use to meet Jo and Micha in.”

Mahreen looked to Connelly, “Who is it?”

“Mr. William Poindexter.”

“YES.”

“Mahreen! No, Sir, there is pretty much  _ no way _ asking him is a good idea. Do you know of anyone else?”

“ _ Mere laal, _ ” Mahreen said, “he’s  _ perfect _ . Thank you Mr. Connelly, we owe you a bag of the good coffee from that place on third street. Really, we can’t thank you enough.”

_ “Mahreen!” _

Mahreen shushed him with a finger across his lips, already up and moving back to the door. She pushed Derek out, waving cheerily to Mr. Connally and not giving Derek a word in edgewise.

_ “Mahreen, what the hell?!” _

“Shush, Der. He’s perfect. There’s no chance of you both getting distracted to go off on a sports-boy tangent, he’s not going to feel bad about tearing you a new one when you’re being a dumbass, and --this is the best thing-- _ I will get to see you squirm. _ He even knows the subject! Text him to ask.”

Derek groaned. “He’s with Chow, right now. I’m not sure I should disturb them…”

Mahreen’s look was steady and unimpressed with his shit.

“Fine.” Derek pulled out his phone and flicked through his contacts to find Dex’s number.

_ Hmmm...no individual chat. _ Derek lamented setting his phone to auto-delete old messages to save on space and tapped around through his contact menu trying to send a new one.

**Dialing: Poindorky.**

“Fuck!”

_ “Hello?” _

“Uh, hey, Dex…”

_ “Yeah. Hi. Chris, Nurse is on the phone, I think he wants to talk to you! Is your phone ringer off again?” _

“No, no...I need to talk to you, actually.”

Derek and Mahreen reached the first floor lobby of the building and Derek wandered in the direction of an empty bench near the doors. He and Mahreen sat, and she gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. The sunlight glint off the glittering decorations on her thumbnail.

_ “...Fucking really? I know Chris wants me to hang with both of you this weekend. He told me already. Do you,”  _ Dex’s voice shifted into a harsh whisper,  _ “do you have to hold me hostage to saying yes over the phone when he can hear me and give me  _ eyes _?!” _

“Fuck, do I?!”

Mahreen slugged his arm and Derek met her scowl with one of his own.

“No --no. I’m sorry. That’s not what I’m calling about at all. Mahreen and I, do you remember Mahreen from my birthday party? We just left Professor Connelly’s office hours. We need a tutor. He gave us your name.”

There was a beat of silence, where a thin, tinny voice said from over the phone,  _ “Dex? What does Nursey want?” _

_ “For Astronomy?” _

“Yeah. I suck at it. It’s fucking fake, bro.”

_ “Both you and Mahreen?” _

“Yes. Do you honestly think I would ask you if it meant we had to be alone together?”

Mahreen hit him again.  _ Be nice, _ she mouthed.

_ “I’m...I’m not sure about that, Nurse.” _

The weakness in Dex’s voice was strange. Even through the phone, he sounded hurt. He’d sounded the same way a few nights previous, when he’d dragged Derek to the floor of his room, and begged him to stay. When he’d spent at least five minutes entirely out of his mind and terrorized at the sight of Chowder out the door. It was a voice a half-step from breaking, all it would take would be the right lever.

“Okay. You don’t have to do it...but I am going to be paying like, sixty dollars per hour.”

Mahreen’s perfect instagram brows jumped up towards her scarf. Derek had told her twenty dollars just earlier.

_ “...sixty?” _

“Sixty. And we’re gonna need at least twice a week, a few hours a pop.”

Derek didn’t know if Dex could be bribed with money. A rent break wasn’t enough to make Dex want to room with him, after all. But a few hours a week while not alone wasn’t the same as being expected to live all but in someone else’s pockets.

_ Take the money, Dex. Take the money! _

_ “...Okay. Okay,”  _ Dex’s breath blew across the microphone and Derek shivered to the sound,  _ “I’ll do it. Tomorrow I’ll see what you’ve got and how much work we’ve got to do. I only promise tomorrow! If I decide then that you’ve screwed the pooch, there will be no second session, okay?” _

“Okay? Really?” Derek’s chest relaxed and tensed at the same time, his lungs felt too big to fit in his ribcage, “That’s fine, bro! Better than the nothing we had going for us this morning!” Something was going on with Derek’s face, it was familiar but somehow felt strange.

_ “Okay...I’ll text you where and when.”  _ There was a muffled conversation away from the phone,  _ “Chris says bye.” _

“Yeah, bye back. And, thanks, Dex. Really.”

Dex sucked in a breath,  _ “...You’re welcome.” _

Derek hung up and felt lighter than air. The air suddenly tasted fresher and the light of day didn’t seem so much blisteringly bright as overwhelmingly cheerful. “He’s going to text me some details, but it looks like we’ve got a tutor, Mahreen!” He turned his head to look at the girl. Her face looked a little dumb-struck, happy and intrigued at once. “What?”

Slowly the other rolled her shoulders, “You just have a pretty smile,  _ mere laal _ . It’s different to see you so happy. You normally put up such a front of disinterest.”

Derek schooled his features, dropping the grin --strangely out of place when he wasn’t celebrating a goal on the ice-- and dropping into a severe slouch. “I do  _ not, _ ” he said, you know, like a liar.

Derek spent that evening before dinner hanging out with Holster and reading  Immortal Legends . There were two other origin myths, one that claimed the existence of Incarnates was a result of meddling on the part of unhappy gods, which gods seemed to be determined entirely by whatever geographical locations Incarnates remember from their initial lives. The other was a bit more interesting, and echoed back to one of the things Bad Bob was talking about during an AMA interview Derek sort of remembered from a month or so back.

Derek dug through one of his notebooks to find his notes on the interview, just to be sure.

_ The Eternal Pair _ was an origin story based around the soul-mates he had mentioned. Two souls, bound together through time and destined to meet each life to continue their journeys eternally together. In the origin story, it was said that the Eternal Pair (also called the Unrequited Lovers) was comprised of one Incarnate and one Sleeper. A B-type and an A-type. The Incarnate loved the other so much that he bound their souls together for all of time. However, the sleeper’s feelings for the Incarnate varied over many different lifetimes, but the Incarnate’s romance was never returned. It was said that both A and B types had their origins in some fashion began with this pair - their children, their friends, their lovers. Some Incarnates even had constellations they knew based on stories of the pair.

Derek rolled over on Holster’s bunk, book flopping to his chest.

_ Spinning circles and endless dance, _

_ what happened once happens once again, _

_ I march forward _

_ you march back _

_ and we end up with no difference in distance. _

“Would you want to love someone forever?”

“Huh? What?”

Derek turned to Holster, who was focused more on his textbook than on Derek in his bed.

“Like, Incarnates. Would you ever want to be bound to someone forever the way they can be?”

Holster gave a forlorn look to his text then slid it away from himself. “I don’t know. Honestly, bro? I’m not sure about love at all.”

Derek squinted at him, “What the hell, bro? I don’t think I can name a single week  _ ever  _ you didn’t have a date lined up.”

Holster drooped broad cotton-covered shoulders into a dejected slump. “That’s not a weekly series of  _ success, _ bro. That’s a weekly series of  _ failures. _ I’m  _ shit _ at keeping people. In case you didn’t realize, my longest relationship  _ ever  _ ended just under a week ago. And it was like, three months- _ ish. _ And it was only that long because we’d be counting all the parts that were ‘no strings’ sex.”

Derek snorted, “Okay, so the past four years with Ransom don’t count?”

“What the fuck is everyone’s fucking obsession with me and Ransom?! Can’t bros be bros without everyone thinking we’re boning or something!?” Holster spat, face morphing into a furious snarl and slapping the textbook off his desk. It thud onto the floor and into a mess of laundry, landing open, pages down, and the back cover bending unfortunately.

“Woah, bro! Not what I meant!”

“The fuck you didn’t! It’s what Dex said, too!”

“The fuck?! Bro, seriously, I didn’t mean it like that --I might have at like, the beginning of last year, but it’s  _ painfully obvious _ you guys aren’t fucking.”

Holster, standing now, and tense all over, huge pale fists gone bloodless in the knuckle, bit back another snarl, swallowing his rage. Derek watched carefully for any signs that the huge senior was about to snap and the fear of it curled in his sternum and put icy slush in his blood. Derek flicked his eyes to the stair landing and began to make a judgement call on if he could get there faster than Hols if he distracted him first.

Then Hols melted. Drooping like a wax candle left in a hot car in summer. “Painfully obvious?”

Derek shifted, chewing his bottom lip, “I mean,  _ yeah _ ?”

Holster moved forward suddenly, and froze. Derek slowly lowered his arms from his face.

“Bro...bro did you think I was gonna hit you?”

“No! No way, bro...you just moved kinda suddenly. It’s chill. We’re chill, right?”

Holster worried his lips viciously, then cautiously stepped forward to crowd Derek onto his bed and slowly suffocate him under his massive, muscular bulk.

“What makes it obvious?” Holster asked, sounding small.

“Uh,” Derek had lost thread of the conversation somewhere in the last few minutes, but was willing to go along with just about anything if it kept Hols from swinging back into a foul mood. Hols easily had thirty or forty pounds of straight muscle on Derek, and several inches of height, besides. Derek pat at the other’s back carefully, before rolling them over and huddling Holster in the space between Derek and the wall. As foreign and frightening the blonde in anger was, somehow the forlorn dejection projecting off him now was worse.

“Well, my first clue was March. Neither of you seemed the kind of guy to cheat on his girl, and we all knew about March pretty quick. And of course, you would talk about your hookups.” Derek thought back to the previous year and the confusing, too-earnest whirlwind that made up the first line d-men.

“I guess, I thought that you both just had a really great bromance. It wasn’t like I had any better to compare to.”

“That’s it? We sleep with other people?”

“...Yeah. I guess it is.” Derek wracked his brain for any other reasoning that Ransom and Holster weren’t secretly on the down low, but came up blank.

“Fuck.”

“What’s bringing all this on?”

Holster shook his head, then squeezed Derek around the middle, “It’s...just something Dex said to me when we broke up. It’s got me all...confused.”

“That bitch.”

Holster snorted into Derek’s breastbone, and Derek didn’t mention the awful wet sensation, unsure if it was snot and  _ really  _ preferring ignorance. “Oi vey,  _ Derek _ !”

“Wha~at?”

Holster broke into snorting giggles that rumbled through the bed, and made light of the smearing across his high, ruddy cheekbones.

_ Bold and bright tears _

_ smothered across the planes of your face _

_ ripping out your joyousness _

_ to stitch it to your sleeve _

_ you hold too tightly _

_ to the harshness of your existence _

_ but woes are halved in their sharing _

_ so let me bear it with you _

Derek prodded and waggled his fingers in all of Holster’s weak spots, just to extend the fit of giggles until the soured smell of his sadness ceased to linger in the cleaner smell of carefree sweat and they both flopped down, smiling. Instantly, Holster rolled on top of Derek like the world’s worst-timed heating blanket and tucked his head into Derek’s neck.

“Dex told me I was in love with Ransom.”

Derek squirmed into a comfortably smothered lay-out and tangled his and Holster’s legs. “He doesn’t get to tell you how you feel, bro.”

“Yeah, but...what if he’s not wrong, bro? Rans is my  _ best friend _ . Like, thirteen of my dates have told me that they’re not into the ‘throuple’ thing when they broke off with me, another dozen or so flat-out said they didn’t want to be my side-piece, and like...six told me the same thing Dex did. A few of them even looked like they were sorry about it.”

“So?”

“So, it isn’t like I haven’t thought about it, bro. I had my crush on Ransom --everyone with a thing for dicks and dudes gets one on him at  _ some point _ .”

“It’s like a law or something,” Derek agreed.

“Yeah!” Holster said, popping up and grinning at Derek fiercely, “a  _ law _ , or something. But, I got over it. Rans is straight, at least, he’s never told me otherwise, and he  _ knows  _ I’m bi as fuck. He would tell me if he wasn’t.”

Derek thought back to his birthday, and later, and how Ransom’s face crumpled with the idea that Holster was leaving him behind. “Yeah, I think he would, too. So, you’re over it, what’s the deal? If other people can’t handle how much you care about each other isn’t that they’re fucking problem?”

Holster settled back into Derek’s neck, warm breath damp and ghosting under Derek’s tank. “So what if I’m not? I’ve told myself I’m over it so many times, Derek. I know what a crush feels like, I have one on Dex--”

“Ugh, I feel that. Red-haired prick.”

“--hehe, yeah. Didn’t work out for either of us, did it? Point is, that --that’s a crush. I wanted to make him and me facebook-official and whatever, but I’m not falling apart about getting cut out instead. In the grand scheme, I can leave it be. But --I  _ cry _ when I realize what a fucking garbage fire future I’m going to have and how Rans is so goddamn hell-bent on attaching himself to it.”

“Cry?”

“I spent an hour between classes pulling a homecoming queen dumped on prom night. Lily from my Art Appreciation lecture found me sobbing on the men’s room floor and dragged me into the women’s. Did you know they have a couch in there? I didn’t. She said--she told me--” Holster took a deep breath, “She asked me if I loved Ransom.”

Derek swallowed his instinctive snort of  _ ‘obviously’ _ , and blew the resulting tickle out his nose. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Haha...yeah,” Holster said, quietly, without humor. “But she was asking if I was  _ in love _ with him. And, look, I’ve spent a lot of time telling people, ‘nah, we’re bros.’ When I said it to her, she told me that it sounded a whole lot like ‘no homo’ for desperately homo feelings.”

Derek nodded absently, “Wait--what?”

Holster squeezed again, “Dex said --ha-- Dex said,  _ ‘You’re not seriously asking me that, are you? I’m here for sex,  _ just _ sex. You’re so in love with Justin Oluransi that you literally sabotage every other relationship you get into. You would  _ love _ to be official with me-- so that you can go back to dating Ransom.’ _ ”

Derek took a moment to process that. “Fuck that. Did you feel like you were serious about him?” 

Holster sucked in a breath, then slowly let it out, “...No. Because I think...maybe he was absolutely right. I think everyone knew it. And, I think it may have been both the most beautiful and terrible thing he could have ever done for me.”

_ Crushing eyes and steely gaze _

_ piercing through a desperate haze _

_ taking falsehoods and denial _

_ dissolving them in so much bile _

_ vile truth in mess may lay _

_ a piece of gold to shine today _

Derek jerked under Holster’s weight. “You’re  _ in love _ with Justin?” Derek asked, enunciating slowly, just in case he was misinterpreting.

“Yeah,” Holster’s weight slowly sank deeper into Derek and the stiff mattress beneath them, “what am I gonna do, Derek? I can’t be  _ in love _ with my straight best friend! We’re gonna  _ live together. _ We’re gonna  _ have dogs. _ What’s it gonna mean--” Holster’s deep baritone squealed off as he choked over his own words, “-- _ when he _ finally  _ leaves me for a girl?! _ ”

And something in the huge blonde senior broke. Not the angry snapping from earlier, but a true, hopeless, pitiful wailing, half muffled into Derek’s pectoral. Holster sobbed into Derek’s chest like his world was falling apart…

...Or like his huge, squishy heart was breaking.

Derek slid into the computer science library the next day tingling all the way through his fingers in anticipation. He glanced at the help desk, but it was empty save for a napkin sprinkled with crumbs and a ring of coffee, not quite dry yet, by a keyboard. The library itself was tucked into the basement of the CompSci building, and the lack of windows --and people-- was jarring. Derek ventured further into the cramped space, file cabinets and stacks of books crammed uncomfortably close together. “Hello? Dex? Mahreen? Did I find the right place?” After a moment without response, Derek tried, “Poindexter writes epic-style poetry in his spare time!”

“Fuck you, Nurse!”

_ Ah, there you are. _

Derek rounded another stack and found a table shoved against a wall where Dex and Mahreen had set up. The table had it’s long side up against the wall, and the width was shallow, giving it the appearance of a laptop bank more than a table, but it had electric sockets and chairs, so Derek would try not to complain about the lack of space. Mahreen had already unpacked a notebook and some pens, taking the seat closer to Dex, who had a notebook, a blank transparency sheet, and a dry erase marker.

“You’re late,” Dex said, one brow raised. His smooth tenor sending shivers down Derek’s sides.

“There was a line at Annie’s. I brought coffee.”

“Ooh, thanks, Derek, you’re a lifesaver!” Mahreen took the tall cup with a domed lid filled with whip creme.

Dex sneered, “I’m not drinking some--”

“Yours is black with one packet of sugar.”

“--that’s acceptable. You,” Dex paused, and looked up at Derek through the fringe of his eyelashes. Eyes flashing, guarded. “You know my coffee order?”

“Sure, bro. Don’t you know mine?”

“You change it all the time. Last one I heard you order was a skinny macchiato with a vanilla shot. Which completely cancels out the ‘skinny’ part of the the macchiato, by the way.”

Derek rolled his eyes, then at Dex’s affronted look, did it again, leaning in for emphasis. Dex seamlessly reached around Mahreen to smack the back of Derek’s head, ruffling his carefully coiffed curls. Derek didn’t duck, just because it meant that Dex would touch him.

_ God _ , Derek was pathetic.

“Ow!”

“Don’t even play. Sit your ass down, Nurse. Did you two bring your latest quizzes?”

“I brought all of my quizzes,” Mahreen said, already digging into her teal folder, some of the shiny rose-gold polka-dots on it’s cover slowly rubbing off.

“Overachiever,” Derek teased. “Why are we here instead of the actual Library?” Derek asked, dropping his bag and delicately fussing with his charger where it plugged into his iPhone. 

“Quizzes?”

“Hold up, hold up.” Derek arranged the cord so that his phone flashed the charging icon, then pulled his bag into his lap and dug around his notebooks for whatever Astronomy papers he could find. They were scattered, and honestly, Derek wasn’t certain if his most recent test was even in one of the notebooks he currently had on him. He shuffled through a few loose papers, and overall...had five quizzes to Mahreen’s twelve. Great.

Dex gestured for all of it imperiously, and snatched the papers away with a snap. “First off, Nurse, what the hell? Do you even  _ have  _ a dedicated notebook for this class? Also, how many people are in this library, and how many are in the main library? It’s just us. Which means when I have to murder you for being an idiot there won’t be any witnesses.”

Derek snorted, because threats of murder weren’t supposed to be charming, but Derek was melting inside over the downward turn at the corner of Dex’s lip. “Well, I  _ started  _ with one, not really sure why, but most of my notebooks start as one subject, and end at another.”

“That is totally fucked.  **_Find your notes tonight, and organize them neatly._ ** Or I  _ promise _ you will not be coming back for a second session.”

Derek shivered, and carefully tapped a reminder into his phone, careful not to jostle the charger. He would dig through his notebooks tonight and shove it all into that spare binder under his bed.

Dex flicked through the two stacks of paper quickly, eyes flickering and flashing and his mouth tightening into a thin line.

“Derek...what the  _ hell _ . Were you half-asleep when you were in class? Mahreen--you just need to watch the fucking formulas.” 

An hour and a half later, Derek’s coffee was long gone, and his head felt like it was either a balloon hoving six inches above where his hair should be, or like an off-tempo drum line had taken residence just behind his eyeballs. For extremely different sensations, they were somehow working in fantastic symphony. Mahreen, next to him, was floating alongside Derek, dazed and starstruck. 

“Wow,” she said, hugging her hands to her chest, “I totally understand it, now.” Derek ‘hmm’ed, mindlessly. “I understand exactly why you like him so much. Was he always that good looking? I mean, objectively, he’s not that good looking --he’s a six. His body is amazing. He’s got a strong face--”

“Ears.”

“ _ \--yes _ ! They make him look goofy, right? So why is he so hot right now?! I would give him my number. I would say yes to a date. I would probably take him home to meet my parents right now--I don’t feel like this is normal.”

Derek groaned so hard he could  _ feel _ his face contorting. “Micha would call it a talent crush, and for the love of my not vomiting out of stress,  _ please get over it, soon. _ ”

Mahreen nodded, but absently, as if she wasn’t really listening. “I can’t believe how clear he was, explaining all of that stuff.”

“He explained everything like, six times, c’mon--”

“No, he explained it a few different ways, then had us explain it to each other, then walked us through some problems, gave us some example problems, then--”

“ _ Mahreen. _ ”

“Okay, okay! I’m just saying that even if the lecture from last week is still total  _ pacheeda _ \--”

“That doesn’t make grammatical sense.”

“Literally no one on this campus would care other than you,  _ mere laal-- _ but the content from the beginning of the semester is actually making sense! And if his calculations are right, we can still pass the semester!”

“Correction,” Derek said, rubbing at his face, “ _ I  _ might pass with a D,  _ you  _ might scrape a  _ B  _ if you’re extremely diligent.” Mahreen flapped a hand to brush away technicalities.

“I don’t want to get my hopes up, Derek. I’m just glad he arranged us to come back tomorrow.”

Derek groaned louder.

Derek was reading about the first part of Bob’s trial and when it was going to happen when Portman found him. Huffing and puffing, cheeks gone an unflatteringly splotchy raspberry color. He called out from across the quad, and had jogged over, oversized shorts held up with one clenched fist, large shoes slapping on concrete louder than the pissed cussing the twiggy human spat over his shoulders at the people be barged past.

“Derek! Derek slow down you motherfucker!”

Derek smirked, shifting his weight to cock out one hip. He hadn’t been moving, but he didn’t bother pointing it out to Portman, jerking into a stop just outside of Derek’s personal space and wheezing. He gave a casual two finger salute. “Yo.”

“ _ Huugh,  _ Bro -- _ fweewfuckyouhockeybros _ \-- Bro, did you fucking hear the scuttle butt?!” Portman panted. Derek slung his satchel to his front and opened the main pocket, digging for his water bottle and passing it over.

“Nah, man, what’s good?”

Portman took it, but didn’t drink. Instead the other teen hacked a cough and spat (right in front of a passing girl who shrieked and gave Portman a nasty glare) then squinted up at Derek though his sweaty brow.

“Bro--Zimmermann got outed!”

For a split second, Derek’s ears rung, his first thought being that someone had hacked Jack’s phone and found Bitty’s saccharine texts --or worse, a snapchat screenshot history that Derek wanted no knowledge of. “What? How?” Every muscle in Derek’s body felt like a rubber band before snapping, and he forcefully reminded himself to keep his teeth apart. Derek chewed on his tongue to keep from grinding his teeth.

Portman held up a finger, gasping at the ground. “Hang on-- _ wwhew!-- _ Okay, so, like, TMZ got some  _ huge scoop _ \-- _ hah _ \-- from some acquaintance of a friend of Bad Bob and spilled a fuckton -- _ ohmygodmystomachhurts _ \-- a fuckton of personal stories. TMZ went  _ on the case _ and pulled some serious --- _ heh _ \-- serious CSI shit to figure out a few possible previous identities of his. A few seem seriously far-fetched, but they have pretty solid reasoning for one or two. They think he may have been one of the Founding Fathers of America! Or one of their staff members, but still!” He spoke quickly, rushing through the words and choking on them as he sputtered through his breathing.

A roaring wave behind Derek’s eyelids swayed, and for a moment white noise drowned his ears until some of Portman’s rushed message filtered through. “Mr. Zimmermann?”  _ Not Jack? Not Bitty? _ “Say what? Wait-- _ what? _ ”

Portman glared up through squinted brows, “Bad Bob Zimmermann’s old identities? People he used to be? You might have met the guy because his son and you used to play hockey?”

Derek sagged, a palpable relief dropping off his shoulders, “Oh, I thought you were talking about someone else for a second!”

“Dude --are Jack and his boyfriend not public knowledge, then? Bitty, right?”

Derek instantly panicked, sucking in a breath. Portman waved him down.

“Dude! Dude, sorry! Nonono! It’s okay, it’s okay! I figured it out on my own! I just know not to spread it around!” Derek swallowed his spit and nodded.

“You knew?”

“Since your birthday, bugaboo. Who can afford that many flowers otherwise? And he basically stopped talking about Jack on his vlog when his boyfriend became a thing.”

The warmth of the sun came back to Derek’s cheeks, “You found Bit’s baking vlog? Dude--”

“Don’t worry about it. Back to topic --who the hell spilled about Zimmermann-the-elder?”

Derek reeled, “I don’t know, bro I--” Derek had only told the girls, and they wouldn’t have talked about it. Right? Derek’s guts twisted. Portman was chewing his lips and his weasley countenance bore into Derek’s face disapprovingly. “I only told the girls,” Derek finished lamely.

“Including Jo?”

Derek’s eyes flashed down, and Portman swore. “Fuck. Well, I’ve already texted Hols what I know. Tell him that he needs to come chill with me when you see him at your crazy frat house later, yeah? Do us all a favor --talk to Jo about this, alright?”

Derek nodded, “Thanks, bro. Seriously. I’ll do that.”

“Tell Hols to come hang out with me.”

“Chill.”

Portman’s face glanced around, shifty, like an old-school burglar eying around for the authorities, before slinking away. It looked ridiculous in broad daylight.

_ And so my faults are mine again _

_ once for the action _

_ twice for the knowing _

_ they grow and creep and rape and rend _

_ once in the moment _

_ twice in the showing. _

_ Theme Four: Death _

_ I have explored several types of myth in this collection. Origin stories, romantic tales, epics of tricksters and warriors have all been recorded here. However, most are not Aesop’s Fables --tales to learn by, or that preach morals. Our last theme alone does this, as there is only one character in Incarnate mythos ever placed as Judge to our kind. _

_ Incarnates are in practice, immortal. We cannot be killed permanently by any means available to us or the sleepers we share our world with. But, as adults warn off their children’s bad behavior with stories of monsters under beds and tales of boogeyman ready to steal them away, we too, have a monster of sorts. _

_ It is said that he is all-seeing, and all-knowing. No language he cannot understand. No history he hasn’t walked. It is said that where evil treads, he stalks behind, not to comfort the broken, but to slay the wicked, Incarnate, Sleeper, and Mortal alike. _

_ He has many names of course, our kind has heaped many titles on him, but the first of interest is perhaps his best known. _

_ Emperor Death: _

_ Long ago, when the world was new, _

_ people were young, and scared of stars, _

_ but the animals were tamed, _

_ Long ago, there were more of us. _

_ The great wheel turned, _

_ and did the great sky, _

_ and the great people toiled _

_ loving, learning, and strong of body and mind. _

_ Of the people, many were strong, _

_ lifting bales of wheat and reeds, _

_ when the oxen failed, _

_ the strong pulled the plow. _

_ Of the people, some were fast, _

_ chasing the beasts of burden _

_ and courying messages _

_ from lord to lord across the land. _

_ Of the people, some scented as hounds, _

_ able to find the guilty of crime, _

_ or the sick of body, _

_ from across a city. _

_ Of the people, the least had the eyes and ears of cats, _

_ And of them many were wary, _

_ the dark was no barrier to them, _

_ as guards or as thieves. _

_ In this, we were all balanced, _

_ and the cycle turned smoothly, _

_ until the liege-lords and war-lords and merchant men _

_ saw their large lots, and were unhappy. _

_ They began to bicker, _

_ then they began to argue, _

_ and finally, they began to fight, _

_ And so began the Schism. _

_ Before the War, _

_ was peaceful and the world was kind, _

_ After the War, _

_ the people would never be the same. _

_ The Schism tore the world, _

_ and each lord took their corner and piece. _

_ The Lord took the river valley, and worked the land, _

_ his territory was fecund, and his crops grew well,  _

_ bursting with produce full and fat,  _

_ this fed his armies who marched on the others. _

_ The King took the marshes and the sea, and fished, _

_ his waters were full of the slivered bodies of fish,  _

_ nets overflowing with their gasping bodies, _

_ this fed his troops who marched on the others. _

_ The Liege, the weakest, took the mountains and mesas, and grazed his hoards of cattle,  _

_ though their lives were hard, the land was vast, and their herds grew plentiful, _

_ This fed his soldiers who marched on the others. _

_ The Emperor, oldest of all, held the jungles and wild places untamed by man,  _

_ and coaxed life from stones and fed his people off the bounties there, _

_ he held no war forces, and marched on no rulers,  _

_ but gazed at the burning, sinking world and turned away,  _

_ holding his eden from bloody struggle. _

_ “Involve me not,” he told the messengers, _

_ they came to beseech his alliance, _

_ “I do not care for this revolting display, _

_ leave me be, in the wild, untamable lands.” _

_ The Lord scoffed at this answer, _

_ and said to himself: _

_ “I will take his territory last, _

_ when I have the others under my feet.” _

_ The King waved the trouble off, _

_ and said to himself: _

_ “I will wait for the others to attack him, _

_ and steal his lands after gaining his alliance.” _

_ The Liege worried least of all, _

_ and said to himself: _

_ “I will let the others take the Emperor’s lands, _

_ and have them in the end in my victory.” _

_ And they left the Emperor be, for a time. _

_ A generation passed, _

_ and each lord was born again post-death, _

_ with each generation more, _

_ territory was lost, _

_ territory was gained, _

_ and the world was carved apart in bloody rivers. _

_ The people’s talents were lent, _

_ to most lethal of purpose, _

_ violence became the horror of life, _

_ the genteel guidance of peace was lost. _

_ The Emperor too, _

_ lived and died through the passing of time, _

_ and his wild border was held tight against the tide, _

_ his cycles less tumultuous in their turnings.  _

_ Slowly, the cycles crumbled the world _

_ under the grinding march of armies, _

_ led by superhuman men. _

_ The Lord’s river valley dried out and died. _

_ The King’s marches and seas became empty. _

_ The Liege’s cattle became sick and starved. _

_ All three turned to the borders of the wild places, _

_ green and thriving under the Emperor, _

_ and fell upon it as starving beasts. _

_ Unaware of the vicious wave slavering armies, _

_ unaware of the dogs at their door, _

_ the people, mortal and not died in droves. _

_ The Lord ventured further, _

_ searching for spoils, _

_ The King ventured further, _

_ searching for spoils, _

_ The Liege ventured further, _

_ searching for spoils, _

_ all confident that the vast lands would hide them. _

_ Further and further and further they reached, _

_ trailing roads home of grabbed goods, _

_ raped livelyhoods, _

_ and stolen treasures. _

_ The cycle turned, and the Emperor’s servants came to him, _

_ words of betrayal and blood on their lips. _

_ The Emperor’s servants came to him, _

_ baying for retribution and revenge. _

_ The Emperor, coldly, said: _

_ “Greed is violent, and unforgiving. _

_ It takes no quarter and needs no sleep. _

_ It devours the souls of its victims, _

_ leaving ravenous monsters behind.” _

_ The Emperor, gazed from his palace, _

_ down to the battlefields distant, _

_ and his servants pleaded, _

_ his servants begged, _

_ until the Emperor acquiesced to war.  _

_ The Lord, the King, and the Liege were long on their march, _

_ turnings of cycles beyond counting, _

_ The Emperor’s men were fresh, _

_ incandescent with indignation, fury, and righteousness. _

_ First, they found the River Valley Lord, _

_ his army at rest, _

_ harassing a settlement, _

_ and playing amusement with the populace. _

_ The men were fought as dogs, _

_ the women and children made to play servant, _

_ and the infirm were left alone to starve in their beds, _

_ uncared for by their families. _

_ The cycle turned to the darkest hour before dawn, _

_ and the Emperor stole away into the sleeping camp, _

_ and bound each man with cords unbreaking, _

_ to wake with the light of dawn. _

_ Trussed up as a feasting dish, _

_ the Lord cried out: _

_ “What is this, who has done this to my men? _

_ You will be killed for such insolence to your masters!” _

_ The Emperor, backed of fury said: _

_ “He whom you would steal from. _

_ A friend, or so I’d believed.” _

_ The Emperor sent the Lord to his home, _

_ to await his return in pauper’s garbs. _

_ Second they found the Sea-dog King, _

_ mid-ransack, _

_ of a temple large and fine, _

_ looting and hooting their finds. _

_ The Emperor’s attack was swift, _

_ the King’s men caught weaponless, _

_ dinghies on the bank weighed down with spoils, _

_ and their hands full only of glittering hoard. _

_ Surrender was made, _

_ each man was bound with the Emperor’s unbreaking cord, _

_ and the King said: _

_ “You greedy beast! To keep such wealth! _

_ Whilst we starve all alone!” _

_ The Emperor shook his head, _

_ and replied in solemn voice: _

_ “Had you asked, instead of taken, _

_ I may have shared by bounty with you.” _

_ The Emperor sent the King to his home, _

_ to await his return in pauper’s garbs. _

_ The last to be found was the Liege, _

_ who had the wits of the weak, _

_ knowing the hunt was on, _

_ like rats and gnats and unpleasantries, _

_ began to crawl into the dark and damp. _

_ The Liege’s men searched the dark, _

_ pressing for bruises, _

_ and found three: _

_ an Infantryman, a Sergeant, and a General. _

_ The Infantryman was plied with lost love and drink, _

_ and pulled from his guard post, sloppy in his cup. _

_ The Liege sent of his People those cat-eyed thieves, _

_ and the cat-eyed thieves stole away into the camp, _

_ and stole away the lives of the lesser-guarded officers, _

_ one by one with knife-slit throats. _

_ The Emperor was roused to the sound of shrieking, _

_ moaning and howling and wrathful. _

_ The Emperor looked upon the slaughter, _

_ his impassive face held no sorrow, _

_ and his people looked upon their Emperor, _

_ his impassive face felt no loss. _

_ The Sergeant was a gossip-born, _

_ and freshly scorned by the Emperor’s placidity, _

_ the cleverest of the Liege’s men played friend, _

_ spoke from shadows into resentful ears. _

_ He whispered words of a cold-eyed lord, _

_ with bloodless heart, _

_ and unfeeling gaze, _

_ distanced from his people and their suffering. _

_ The Sergeant was sent back to his camp, _

_ babbling echoes of words still fresh to mind, _

_ and a tale grew from his borrowed words, _

_ tall and shadowy, just as the Liege liked, _

_ of an Emperor indifferent, _

_ with an ear for only his most loyal, _

_ and mind only to his own council. _

_ The General found the Liege, _

_ the Liege’s rumors in his ears, _

_ and weighing heavy on his heart, _

_ betrayed his Emperor. _

_ The General, fighting for the lives of his people, _

_ mortal and not, _

_ bargained his betrayal for governance, _

_ his task simple, _

_ but would end in a battlefield soaked in blood. _

_ The Emperor’s men entered the battlefield,  _

_ the General’s legion to their flank,  _

_ all seemed ready for battle. _

_ The Liege’s soldiers march slowly ate the ground below their feet, _

_ The Emperor’s men stood strong,  _

_ their shields a great wall _

_ from the spear-tips and slingshots from the Liege’s quarter.  _

_ Though pressed hard,  _

_ the Emperor’s men were coordinated and strong,  _

_ the People’s leaders and lieutenants leading with grace. _

_ The battle raged for a cycle, _

_ then another, _

_ and yet one more _

_ and merciless, the General’s flank was called. _

_ The General, seeing the call from the field,  _

_ did not raise his banner. _

_ There was a shout, and a cry,  _

_ still the banner remained low. _

_ The Emperor, at the center of the battle, _

_ looked upon his flank,  _

_ and the General, blessed of the hawk-kind eyes _

_ turned away from his lord and master.  _

_ His banner was still, and low,  _

_ and the General’s eyes held his lord’s  _

_ and turned away.  _

_ The General’s bannermen turned away, _

_ loyalty winning them over their confusion. _

_ The General’s infantry turned away, _

_ terror from the fight covered with relief. _

_ The General’s archers turned away, _

_ shame-faced and sullen but quiet. _

_ And the Emperor watched them turn, _

_ frowned his distant frown,  _

_ and carried on with his bloody business. _

_ The Liege seized his opportunity,  _

_ afforded him with the betrayal he had arranged,  _

_ and pressed the attack.  _

_ The Emperor’s people became overrun, _

_ the noose of the Liege’s plot began to tighten.  _

_ The Liege saw the tide of the battle, _

_ and called to the Emperor: _

_ “Yield and I will let you live!” _

_ The Emperor replied: _

_ “You are a fool, and I will kill you when this is done.” _

_ The Emperor became a storm of perfect violence and blood, _

_ a force like a god, wrathful, but calm.  _

_ The Emperor, famed of his passivity,  _

_ was a deity incarnate of slashing blades and striking fist.  _

_ The blood flowed through more cycles than numbers,  _

_ with the Emperor leading charge after charge.  _

_ The battle hung ever in the Liege’s favor,  _

_ and the Emperor’s loyal men fell one by one.  _

_ The Liege’s ranks fell and fell, _

_ and were refilled again like a fountain, _

_ the Emperor was surrounded,  _

_ without any but his staunchest supporter,  _

_ back to back waiting on a vicious end.  _

_ For the Emperor, it was one death of many,  _

_ but for the other? No new life awaited him. _

_ The Emperor saw his most loyal, _

_ proud and faithful, _

_ kind and strong, _

_ slowly dying of weariness, _

_ and something broke in him.  _

_ Something seized his heart, _

_ shook the cobwebs of indifference from him.  _

_ The Emperor swung out,  _

_ lashing at all comers,  _

_ defending his companion,  _

_ his companion defending him in return. _

_ The Emperor’s companion was stabbed in the back,  _

_ taking the blow for his lord, _

_ and dying on the field of battle, _

_ in his Emperor’s arms, he said: _

_ “My Emperor, I do not understand, _

_ they say you are meek, _

_ and unfeeling. _

_ Are they blind?  _

_ There has never been anything, _

_ but love shining in your eyes.” _

_ “It seems only for you, my friend.”  _

_ The Emperor replied,  _

_ laying down his weapons _

_ and awaiting his assailants.  _

_ The battle ended swiftly after that.  _

_ The Emperor was chained, _

_ marched to his throne,  _

_ the Liege’s hand on his lead like a common beast of burden.  _

_ The march was long,  _

_ and when the Emperor faced his throne again,  _

_ usurper proud in his stolen seat of power, _

_ he was as dusty, dirty,  _

_ and thin as a street dog.  _

_ His surviving lieutenants as filthy as he. _

_ The Liege strut about,  _

_ crowing his successes, _

_ spitting upon the Emperor and his loyal men,  _

_ He gathered his leadership  _

_ to mock their defeated foes. _

_ The Liege cried out to all: _

_ “You unfeeling creature!  _

_ Your own people do not trust you!  _

_ See here, a man so burdened _

_ burdened under your indifference, _

_ that his only option was betrayal of his fealty to you!”  _

_ The Betrayer General stood tall,  _

_ but kept his eyes low. _

_ A lieutenant of the Emperor replied: _

_ “Fabrications and lies! _

_ You put these to feeble minds, _

_ spinning untruths from fear!” _

_ The Liege spoke as oil spills: _

_ “Truths can be vile, and insipid,  _

_ but all thrive after taking root, do they not?” _

_ The Liege proclaimed a feast, _

_ a feast of a feast _

_ to break their great famine, _

_ and all were brought to witness his glory. _

_ The Lord was bound to the Liege’s second. _

_ The King was bound to the Liege’s third. _

_ The Emperor was set at the Liege’s feet, _

_ and left to the rags they’d been left in. _

_ Fragrant wines and lucious meats _

_ wafted under their noses to tempt, _

_ and each in turn denied sustanance. _

_ The Lord’s men growled, _

_ the King’s men growled also, _

_ and the Emperor’s men howled obscenely. _

_ Insult to insult, _

_ pigs were brought from the kitchen, _

_ to feast on the party scraps _

_ the men were denied. _

_ The Emperor was at the foot of his own throne, _

_ weak and unwashed from his forced march. _

_ His men were gagged and bound, _

_ like so much morbid decoration, _

_ and made to witness his humiliations. _

_ The Liege insulted the Emperor’s victories, _

_ the Liege insulted the Emperor’s nobility, _

_ the Liege insulted the Emperor’s wisdom. _

_ The Emperor’s cool, disdainful eyes _

_ cast across the hall of raucous revelers. _

_ The revelers came, the revelers went, _

_ the Liege’s battalion leaders, squadron heads, _

_ specialists, and scouts. _

_ Any and all who’d shed blood in the Schism, _

_ had a taunt or two for the men, _

_ sneering at the Emperor, _

_ raising bile with each whisper. _

_ The feasting lasted three days and nights, _

_ and everyone the Liege invited, _

_ to witness his horrid glory, _

_ had arrived to lap up their pride. _

_ The Liege raised a toast: _

_ “To the Emperor of the wild places, _

_ he who ruled the madness _

_ with heart of stone!” _

_ Laughter rang round and round, _

_ until a more hideous laughter disturbed them. _

_ It cracked and fissured, _

_ it split and rent, _

_ rough without water, _

_ and deep with rage. _

_ “Foul Liege, you are a fool. _

_ Of the people, many are strong, _

_ lifting bales of wheat and reeds, _

_ when the oxen fail, _

_ the strong pulled the plow. _

_ Of the people, some are fast, _

_ chasing the beasts of burden _

_ and courying messages _

_ from lord to lord across the land. _

_ Of the people, some scent as hounds, _

_ able to find the guilty of crime, _

_ or the sick of body, _

_ from across a city. _

_ Of the people, the least have the eyes and ears of cats, _

_ And of them many are wary, _

_ the dark is no barrier to them, _

_ as guards or as thieves. _

_ The Lord is strong, _

_ more than the ox, _

_ more than the bear. _

_ And strength made him a ruler. _

_ The King is swift, _

_ more than the deer, _

_ more than the fox. _

_ And fleetness made him a ruler. _

_ You, simple Liege, _

_ are too young for such an ability. _

_ it was deceit, _

_ and it was wretched cunning, _

_ that made you a ruler. _

_ But I, _

_ I am none of those things. _

_ I have no strength, _

_ I have no fleet-foot, _

_ I am no deceiver. _

_ You, Betrayer, do you know my gift?” _

_ The Betrayer General, head low, _

_ low as his banners, _

_ low as his heart, _

_ replied: _

_ “I do not, Emperor.” _

_ The Emperor, frail of limb, _

_ chapped of lip, _

_ dull of eye nodded, _

_ and replied: _

_ “I find you guilty, _

_ of betraying me, _

_ to whom you swore your allegiance, _

_ to whom your banners should have flown, _

_ with which you should have gone to battle.” _

_ The Betrayer replied: _

_ “I am guilty only of protecting my people.” _

_ The Emperor, frail of limb,  _

_ chapped of lip,  _

_ and dull of eye nodded,  _

_ and the Betrayer dropped dead. _

_ The Emperor turned to the infantrymen, _

_ the Lord’s lot trussed up to the side, _

_ and said: _

_ “You, infantry of the Lord, _

_ do you know my gift?” _

_ Cautiously, into silence, _

_ they replied they did not. _

_ The Emperor, frail of limb, _

_ chapped of lip, _

_ dull of eye nodded, _

_ and said: _

_ “I find you guilty, _

_ of giving in to wrath. _

_ to which you sank drunkenly, _

_ to which you hungered happily, _

_ from which you should have cooled your heads.” _

_ The bound sagged in their bindings,  _

_ their hearts stopped. _

_ The Emperor faced the King’s troops, _

_ faces taut and bloodless, _

_ and said: _

_ “You, troops of the King, _

_ do you know my gift?” _

_ and trembling, _

_ they said no. _

_ The Emperor, frail of limb, _

_ chapped of lip, _

_ dull of eye nodded, _

_ and said: _

_ “I find you guilty, _

_ of complacency to greed. _

_ to which you bent on sour knee, _

_ to which you scraped and pontificate _

_ with which you should have scorned” _

_ The King’s generals dropped where they were,  _

_ and their last breaths hissed out of corpse-mouths. _

_ The Emperor called out, _

_ one by one by one, _

_ each of his captors, _

_ each of their supporters, _

_ and each of them took a knee. _

_ And from their knee, _

_ they looked to the Emperor, _

_ frail of limb, _

_ chapped of lip, _

_ and dull of eye, _

_ and one by one by one, _

_ they toppled, lifeless, _

_ bloodless, _

_ pale. _

_ The Emperor ticked them off, _

_ until the feasting hall was still, _

_ but for one enemy left remaining. _

_ The Lord and his army gathered flies,  _

_ the King and his troops were going clammy and cold,  _

_ and the Liege was alone  _

_ in a room with the Emperor  _

_ and the Emperor’s terrified loyal men,  _

_ surrounded by the slack faces of the departed.  _

_ The Emperor slowly heaved his wilted form off the floor,  _

_ and sat himself in his throne.  _

_ An island of brutal calm in a sea of the dead. _

_ Gazing upon the death, _

_ the Emperor, _

_ in his weary voice said: _

_ “I have lived long.  _

_ Longer than any of you.  _

_ I have seen cities rise and fall,  _

_ civilizations, too.  _

_ I hadn’t thought that I would again  _

_ feel the stirring of my heart in pain enough  _

_ to enact petty revenges.  _

_ But you have made such thought false.” _

_ The Emperor declared in no uncertainty: _

_ “This is the end of your bloody war.  _

_ Neither you, nor your followers,  _

_ or they, and their followers,  _

_ shall ever live again.  _

_ I strip you of your immortality, Liege.  _

_ No one shall remember your name into antiquity.  _

_ I strip you from all memory,  _

_ your face will never be painted to fresco or carved to stone.  _

_ I strip our people of the abilities _

_ which gave us the power to tear the world apart,  _

_ no more will have them.  _

_ People are already too fond of killing.  _

_ Last, I strip you of your life, least of all.  _

_ It was worth little in the end.”  _

_ And with the last word,  _

_ the Liege collapsed, dead on the spot. _

_ The Emperor looked upon his people,  _

_ fearful and shrunken. _

_ He said:  _

_ “If I am so distrusted, I release you.  _

_ You owe no fealty to me anymore.  _

_ Go now, return home.  _

_ I have no ill will towards you.  _

_ Leave me be.”  _

_ The men, heads bowed, refused.  _

_ The Emperor hissed, and spat,  _

_ and threw things at them.  _

_ His generals continued to refuse.  _

_ The Emperor scratched and bit,  _

_ his Lieutenants crouched to take him in their arms. _

_ The Emperor screamed, unholy,  _

_ Instead of leaving, they came closer. _

_ Each in turn swore their fealty again,  _

_ until such time as the Emperor judged to take their lives away. _

_ To this day, none of those the Emperor we call Death put down at the Final Feast has ever been reborn. Abilities are disappearing. It is said, if you warmonger, leeching life from the earth and brewing trouble, he’ll arrive like a phantom. _

_ And take your immortal life away. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm right dead, ya'll.  
> Just....dead.  
> Sorry about the lateness of this chapter, I really wanted it out with the comic update before the past one yesterday. But it wasn't done. Then I wanted it out yesterday and realized the whole end part needed to read a bit less like prose and more like an enormous epic poem. (By the by, I know more about epic poetry now than I did when I took a World Classical Literature class in college.) WHICH I DID YESTERDAY. But my beta, Savi2070 is not an evening person most nights (not by choice) so it took until today to get it all looked over.  
> BONUS FACT: after conversion of that mythos, this chapter is a WHOPPING 44 PAGES!!! **NEW RECORD!**  
> So.....any theories, anyone? I know what is going to happen in this fic, but I do honestly wonder what you hope to see/ what you question/ how you answer those questions in the theater of your own minds.  
> REMEMBER: COMMENTS FEED A HUNGRY (no really --really really hungry) MUSE!

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in something like two years, but I've gone DEEP down the rabbit hole with this one. Getting the writing done is killing me, though, so feedback and kudos are very much appreciated.


End file.
